


The Price of Pride

by Br4v3b1rd (Les)



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Background Wigfrid/Willow, Gratuitous Beating Up Of Fav, M/M, Pre-Cyclum, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6516136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Les/pseuds/Br4v3b1rd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the group split up into teams due to a few incidents at base camp, Maxwell and Wilson are set with trying to survive the world, and each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Why You Don't Mess With Tallbirds

Wilson stood up from his latest finished bee box, brushing his hands free of dirt on his pants. Another successful project away from camp. “Well, that should keep the bees in! Now to wait.” Wilson looked at them, a few bee boxes in the meadow a decent distance from camp. Fantastic, utterly fantastic, he thought, a grin on his face. He started to gather up his tools, enjoying the hum of the bees settling into their new homes. Now they’d have an easier time getting honey, and with all the flowers around, these boxes were sure to be filled in no time. And no killer bees. That was a very exciting prospect, seeing as the last few welts from the last attempt on gather honey were finally fading. “Hey, Maxwell, are you done with the firewood yet?”

He frowned at the lack of response. There wasn’t the sound of axe meeting wood. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t heard the sound of an axe chopping down a tree in a while. “Maxwell, seriously. We need wood, and if we don’t have it, you know what I’ll burn first? That stupid book of yours.”

That would have netted him a yelling match, if the annoying former ‘king’ was here. He turned around, looking at a few fallen trees and some stacks of logs, but not a sign of Maxwell to be seen. “Great. You’ve wandered off. Again. Just what I needed to make today complete.” He glanced to judge the setting sun. Much too close to dusk for comfort, to be honest. What a wonderful time for that idiot to wander off, too.

He sighed as he dug through his satchel, grabbing his miner hat. He wasn’t taking any chances with the darkness, it’d been getting pitch black quicker and quicker lately. He wasn’t in the mood for trying to fend off shadows and look for Maxwell. “You have got to stop wandering away, I swear to god. It’s too dang late.” He mumbled, checking his spear over to make sure it wouldn’t break on the first hit, if he needed to fight.

Out of all the people he had to get sick with in their little base camp split up (thanks to yet another fire burning down half their stuff, thanks Willow,) he’d gotten stuck with Maxwell since nobody else wanted the nightmare king around despite the fact that out of everyone, he hated him the most. Woody had gone with Wes and Wolfgang, while Wickerbottom, Wigfrid, and Willow had formed another group. Leaving him with the mad king, and Wendy and Weber stayed with whoever was the most well stocked. WX-87 was currently in control of the nightmare throne, the robot having decided that until they found someone suitable from this world to take the throne, as a nonhuman entity, they was the best person to leave on the throne.

Wilson honestly would have just loved to throw Maxwell back on there. He had plenty of reason to want to, besides the fact the man could be a pain in the ass to live with. But, facing the facts, it wouldn’t end very well. Maxwell was bound determined not to be a prisoner of the shadows ever again, and two, Maxwell was the best at making everyone’s life a living hell. So leaving him there was a terrible idea, revenge or not.

Gritting his teeth, Wilson started through the forest, the tall pine trees making the fading light even worse to see through. Flicking on the hat’s light, he kept his ears open for the vaguest sign of disturbance. Knowing Maxwell, he was screwing around with him, preparing a shadow projection to freak him out, just like he used to do when Wilson was the only survivor on the island. That had been fun, wasting hard won blowdarts on nonexistent threats. 

Dusk finally set in, as the silence of the forest gave way to a squawking cacophony. That didn’t bode well. Nor did the sudden shout of “To arms!” from Maxwell. Then again, did anything involving Maxwell ever bode well? He tightened his grip on the spear and started dashing towards the noise. The forest broke away into a rocky field, and Wilson spotted the tallbirds first, screaming at the top of their bird lungs. He could see a few empty nest and almost groaned before he caught sight of his fellow survivor. Maxwell’s sword dissolved as he slashed at the tallbirds, and their eyes met as a tallbird crashed their beak into his skull, and he crumpled to the ground.

At any other time this might have seemed comical. The ‘king’ getting his comeuppance, finally. But this wasn’t good at all.

Wilson dashed to a nest, yelling at the tallbirds. “Hey, bird brains!” He shouted, scooping up an unhatched egg. “Come get me!” Adrenalin hit and he laughed, running back to the forest, the tallbird pair following, screaming at the top of their lungs. He stashed the egg away and turned to face them, clutching the spear. When the first one got close enough, he swung up, aiming for the soft flesh under the bird’s beak. The spear pierced through, and there was a breathy squawk as it died.

He pulled it out, and as the tallbird fell, it’s mate fled deeper into the woods. Blood coated his spear and his hand, and he took a few deep breathes before he remembered Maxwell was still where he’d fallen. “Shit, shit, shit.” He puffed, jogging back to the rock field.

He threw the spear to the ground as he reached his partner’s prone body, some blood splattered on the ground. “Hey, Maxwell. You there?” He searched and he found a faint pulse, a surprising sigh of relief escaping him. “Okay, okay. We’re gonna take care of this, I’m gonna get you back to camp and patch you up.”

He grunted, lifting Maxwell up and managing to get him over his shoulder. “God, what the heck possessed you to go off fighting tallbirds, you idiot.” He grumbled, his headlight illuminating the path back. “You could of gotten killed, and we’re not wearing amulets. And I’m pretty sure you haven’t used a touchstone in this world yet. What if I didn’t show up?”

With a grunt, he readjusted his hold. “Now I’m gonna have to break up a chest so we can have a fire tonight. You’re completely useless, you know that? Why couldn’t you just stay and finish chopping wood? Then we wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

He slogged through the woods in silence, passing by the bee boxes, and soon, ended up in their sparse camp; a cooking pit, a fire pit, a few chests, and a tent. Chester bounded over and Wilson couldn’t contain a small smile. “Hey, buddy.” He said, leaning down to peel an unconscious Maxwell from his shoulders. “You got some honey poultice, right?”

Chester’s mouth opened, revealing their stock of honey poultices and healing salves, along with some of the paper bandages. “Good boy.” He muttered, collecting the supplies out of Chester’s mouth and setting them down. “See if you can go get some logs from one of the chests. Or something wooden.”

Chester barked and sat there, and Wilson shook his head. “Keep an eye on him, alright Chester?” He patted the living chest’s head, before walking to a pair of chests. “Let’s see…” He ruffled through, pulling out a hammer and shovel, a bundle of twigs, which he set next to him, tuffs of cut grass, and finally a few loose boards. Replacing the tools and the grass, he closed the chest and carried the twigs and boards back to where he’d left Maxwell and Chester.

The dusk was almost over, and so he threw a few boards into the fire pit, and pulled some flint from his pocket, getting to work on starting a fire, clicking off his helmet. Once he’d gotten it started burning, Wilson sat next to Maxwell, surveying the extent of the injuries. There was a rather bad looking bruise developing on his face, and a deep gash at his temple.

That was not going to be easy to deal with. He didn’t have a sewing kit anymore, so no chance of closing the gash right now, but honestly, that probably wasn’t the best plan of action. “Okay, so all I can do for this right now is sterilize it and wrap it. Tomorrow I’ll see f I can put together a sewing kit and stitch it shut.” Talking out what he had to do was good for cementing what exactly he had to do, even if Chester was the only one listening.

God, he was used to dealing with people’s injuries, but none of them had been unconscious while he treated them before. He was worried about making the injuries worse. For some reason. Honestly, he shouldn’t even really care. Maxwell was and always had been, a major pain in the ass. Especially since he’d been dethroned.

He walked over and poured the contents of his water skin into the crock pot, making a mental note to go get more water in the morning. He’d boiled it before, after just collecting it, but it’d been sitting for a day or two, and honestly, he didn’t need to take any chances. Infection was a real worry out here, and with a head injury? That wouldn’t be pretty.

He sat down and leaned against a chest while waiting, playing with his gloves, trying not to look at that stupid scar on his right palm. Stars, that was even Maxwell’s fault, and yet here he was, about to play nursemaid, since the idiot had provoked two tallbirds without any armor on.

Honestly, who did that? Why would he even do that? It didn’t make much sense at all. Wilson pressed his palms to his face. It didn’t help they were alone, and the closest camp was about a good half day walk if he was avoiding the more dangerous areas, so it wasn’t like he could just carry Maxwell and get help either.

This was a giant fucking mess, and it was all Maxwell’s fucking fault, as usual. And Wilson would bet that if their roles were reversed, Maxwell wouldn’t even care.

But, he was a man of science, and a better man then the magician.

He watched the steam rise from the crockpot for a few minutes before getting a handful of silk from the chest behind him.

What he wouldn’t give for towels and actual cloth bandages. But this is what he’d made do with for months, and would work out fine right now.

It was almost an automatic process, except that this time he wasn’t doing it to himself. Dunk the silk in hot water, fish it out with a stick, wring it out without burning his hands, and apply it to the wound. Rinse, repeat.

It’d at least clean the bacteria that the tallbird’s beak left out, and hopefully keep it from entering the bloodstream.

He cleaned the blood from it again, and wadded up the least stained part. He covered it with healing salve, and with deft hands, bandaged up the gash, using the silk to absorb any more blood that was left.

The honey poultice was applied to minor scratches he’d noticed, and the bruises. By the time he’d finished, Maxwell looked utterly ridiculous.

It was hard not to laugh.

He pulled one of the straw rolls out of the tent and propped the magician’s head up on it. He didn’t really have the energy to drag the man over to the tent, so this would have to do.

Wilson propped himself back up against the chest, and watched the fire through the rest of the night, drifting between sleep and hunger. That’d have to wait until morning, however. He hadn’t had the time to go to the little grove of berry bushes nearby before dark had set in, of course, so there wasn’t much food in camp at all that he could recall.

He’d deal with it in the morning.


	2. The Struggle of Breathing

“-ster, come on!” The dry grass roll crackled as he shifted, foot steps faded into the background noise. The birds were almost screaming, and it made it harder to ignore the throbbing sensation above his left eye and go back to peaceful oblivion. Hadn’t it been dusk before anyway? But he could still hear the redbird’s incessant shrill shrieks, calling forth the morning.

A harsh cough started as soon as he turned over, pain shooting through his chest. Maxwell gripped for something to hold as he wrenched himself up, gasping for whatever air he could get into his body. Curling into himself, he tried to steady his breathing, going for more shallow breaths to at least keep air in his lungs. Fantastic, heavily inured, probably in the middle of nowhere.

He finally opened his eyes. He was back in… camp? The crockpot stood a few feet away.

That was certainly not what he expected. The last thing he remembered was… ah yes, his nightmare blade giving out while he’d been trying to get some eggs. He’d been certain it’d had more life left in it, but it’d slipped away just as he needed it.

So how the hell he’d get back here? Shouldn’t he be laying at a touch stone? And perhaps a lot less sore.

He’d heard Wilson… so did the scientist drag him away from the wrath of tallbirds? That… was more surprising then he thought it’d be. Honestly, he’d of left himself there. Wilson was still full of surprises.

“I see you’re up. It’s been two days, you know.” Speak of the devil, there he was.

“Thanks to you, pal.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the idiot who went off fighting tallbirds without any armor.” Wilson scowled, opening up his pack. “And we haven’t used a single touchstone out here, so it was either drag your sorry butt back here or let you die.”

“And you didn’t leave me.”

Wilson pulled out the scavenging of the morning. “I’m not you. Might hate you, but I’m not going to let you just bleed out and die.” He looked him square in the eye. “I’m not a monster like you.”

Maxwell just gave him a strange look. “Which of us was the one who built the portal?”

“You’re the one who tricked me into doing it.” Wilson shot back, tossing a water skin over. “Now, come on. While you’ve been laying around, I’ve been trying to see if I can locate the parts for the teleportato. We should probably get out of here before winter, seeing as we haven’t found any beefalo yet. It’s still early, so I figured we could check out the swamp. Get up, it’ll be safer if we’re both there.”

He hummed in response, kneeling to get up, before another coughing fit wracked his body. It was strange to taste copper in his mouth again, after so long on the throne feeling nothing.

Wilson kneeled down. “You feeling alright?” He asked, a hand on the magician’s back.

“Yes, ye-“ He hacked out another few coughs. “I’m fine, Wilson. Just caught something in my throat.” He lied, shrugging off the scientist’s hand, trying to ignore the screaming pain in his chest. “Let me just get some food, and build a new sword.”

Wilson frowned, gesturing at Chester. “I got some honey from the boxes, and there should be berries in there. And make some armor, for heaven’s sake.”

The scientist turned away, so he didn’t see the taller man roll his eyes. “Fine, fine, pal. Where’d you put my backpack?”

Wilson pointed over to the chests wordlessly, sitting down and pulling Chester over to him.

It was strange, being in so much pain for once. He drug himself over to the chests and snagged his bag. He could hear cracking noises as he picked it up, and blanched.

The tallbird eggs. Oh dear. He really hopped they were just starting to crack, and not fully ready to break out. “Say, pal. Do you want an egg?” He asked, pulling one of the cracked eggs out. “If you just heat them up, they’ll be quite tasty.”

Wilson’s groan of agony was rather satisfactory to hear. “You’re joking right. They’re hatching. The stupid eggs are hatching.”

Maxwell shrugged and threw one over. “Catch, buddy.”

He smirked, trying to keep himself from laughing as Wilson scrambled to catch the egg. “It’s alive, and you’re just throwing it??”

Maxwell shrugged. “I got them to eat, Wilson. Hatching or not, I’d rather not starve.”

“You’re terrible.” Wilson shook his head and put the egg into Chester’s open mouth. “Utterly terrible.”

“Suit yourself.” Maxwell cracked the other one open and ate the yolk. Not the most elegant way of eating, but he needed something. Even through the ache, he could feel the emptiness of his stomach.

He could see Wilson making a face out of the corner of his eye, but they’d all done it before. Raw eggs were disgusting, but it was something to eat. He whistled for Chester, and Wilson glared as the dumb mutt trotted over, opening it’s mouth happily to expose the wooden containers of honey and berries, the later which he took gratefully. He glanced at the other egg, before deciding putting another raw egg down his throat wasn’t worth it.

The world decided to be silent as he started to eat the berries. It was strange, usually he’d complain about eating such fare, but he didn’t have the energy to bother. He was hungry and sore and anything was better then the raw egg he’d eaten, even these mushy berries.

“Wilson.” The scientist looked up from across the fire pit. “Thank you.”

Wilson gave him a decidedly ‘are you sure you didn’t hit your head too hard’ look and shrugged. “You’re welcome?” He said, standing up. “You better make your stuff, we need to get going.”

It thankfully was still morning when they set off to the west, Wilson wearing log armor and carrying yet another spear, blowdarts readily available, Maxwell wearing night armor, trying to ignore the pain of breathing. At least his codex was a reassuring weight in his hands. Summoning shadows would be easier then fighting in this state, despite the toll on his mind.

Plains turned into swamp around noon, at least according to the sun. They both gagged on the smell of dead fish before continuing on into the murky fields, spiky trees dotting the way.

It wasn’t like they could stop. Be in one place too long, and risk getting attacked by tentacles that would spring from the ground. Back on the throne, those were hilarious to see other survivors stumble into. Now they were just a nuisance, like so many other creations. Hounds, at least, he still had a soft spot for, even when they were attacking.

“On your left!” Maxwell jumped back at Wilson’s warning, opening the codex and summoning his sword out of thin air to equip his shadows.

Wilson dashed forward, the shadows joining in as a tentacle arose from the soil. Maxwell could feel the price of using the codex for more then one shadow, and tried not to look around in paranoia. The most he could do was keep dodging the swinging tentacle, and that was exhausting. He couldn’t think much at all, and barely noticed the tentacle falling to the ground, prone, as he leaned against a spiny tree, gasping for whatever air he could get, the shadows creeping at the edges of his vision making it harder to keep from panicking. He fumbled with the codex, his hands shaking, as pain shot through his lower chest. He dropped the book into the muck, not hearing the footsteps approaching.

“Come on, we have to get going.” Wilson shook Maxwell’s shoulder. “Maxwell. Are you alright?” The scientist looked over his companion. “Maxwell, if we don’t go now, more will show up. There’s a little patch of land up ahead.” Maxwell shook, picking up the book, trying to keep going.

Wilson probably thought it was just panic brought on by the shadows. He rarely used multiple shadow selves, and when he did, it took quite a toll.

But right now, it was whatever damage was keeping him from breathing that was mostly causing this panic. Another coughing fit started, and he staggered forward, the only thing keeping him from falling into the muck was Wilson’s shoulder.

He could hear the scientist mumbling as he wrapped Maxwell’s arm around his shoulder to keep him upright. Something about keeping upright, they were almost there.

He closed his eyes, tried to not see the shadows watching their every move. He let Wilson lead him, to what felt like stone under their feet. A welcome relief from the sticky muck.

Wilson guided him down, and his back met stone. Must be one of the part’s locations. Another coughing fit struck and while he felt the pressure on his mind slowly lift, he heard the sound of a shadow sword meeting wood, a sharp snicker-snack, he found it harder and harder to even move without pain.

The world felt a little less shaky as Wilson kneeled down next to him. “Maxwell, are you alright?” He asked, and if it wasn’t for the fact it’d hurt even more right now, Maxwell almost laughed.

He shook his head, and weakly gestured to his chest. “Did you get hit by the tentacle?” Was the next question.

God, for a scientist, Wilson could be dumb. “I…” he coughed, “The tallbirds.”

Wilson scowled. “You idiot, why didn’t you just say something!” He took the book from Maxwell’s hands and placed it down. “Help me get your shirt off. I have no idea what you’ve done to yourself. And you’ve probably made it worse!” They worked the suit coat off, putting it with the book. He started to unbutton the shirt, and scowled at the bruising he could see. “Why are you so stubborn?” He said, looking over the molted purple and yellow skin. “Point out where it hurts.”

Maxwell groaned in pain and pointed at the lower ribs. Wilson touched the spot, and Maxwell recoiled, eyes tightly shut.

“I think they’re broken. I’m gonna have to splint them, okay?” Wilson’s voice was more concerned then annoyed at this point. “I should have checked earlier.” Was a more quiet mumble.

Maxwell could only nod, exhausted and sore and god, what he wouldn’t do for a cooked mandrake or something to knock him out. He shuddered as he felt Wilson leave. “I’ll be right back, I have to get some sticks and reeds.” The scientist said, as his footsteps went from tapping on stone to the squelch of mud.

Maxwell sighed, trying to not feel so vulnerable. He couldn’t fight, and summoning shadows wasn’t an option. It didn’t help Wilson was being so… kind. They argued. They fought.

They didn’t help each other with anything more then what they needed to do to mutually survive. They’d make their lives even more of a living hell if They weren’t already doing that. And yet Wilson bothered to drag him back to camp. Either chased off or killed the tallbirds.

He sighed. Wilson was too nice for his own good. Even to the person who’d brought him to this hell, he managed some compassion.

It was almost admirable.

Wilson’s footsteps soon returned. “Alright, I managed to make some bandages, and found some spiders, so they’re not just scratchy paper, and they should give some more leniency to movement. And I brought some honey poultice, thankfully, so hopefully it’ll speed recovery.” The scientist rambled, pulling Maxwell’s arms out of his shirt. “We’ll probably stay here overnight, and thankfully I brought supplies for a fire.” He rambled. “I think I have enough for one night’s meal. We’ll go back to camp in the morning.”

Maxwell nodded, shivering as Wilson started to wrap the honey covered bandages around his torso, making sure they weren’t tight enough to constrict breathing.

“They too tight?” Wilson asked, finishing the bandages with a tie. Maxwell shook his head. “Alright, good. I’m gonna get the fire started.”

Maxwell flushed as he struggled to get his shirt back on properly, shivering as the day started to go to dusk. At least breathing felt a little easier.

He was exhausted, and before Wilson even got the fire started, he was asleep.

Wilson turned, holding some jerky he’d packed, and sighed as he noticed the magician sleeping. Well, it was better then Maxwell whining. Wilson started to chew on one of the chunks of cured meat, and tossed the man’s suit coat over him, finding a place to settle in to feed the fire for the night. Tomorrow, at least, he’d get some sleep. For now, hopefully it was the last big disaster for a while.


	3. Swamp Miseries

It was almost dawn, and Wilson hadn’t had a lick of sleep. Not that he really wanted to sleep. The swamp always put him on edge. In the faint glow of the fire, he could see Maxwell’s hunched over form, the suit coat half-slid off. The magician looked better, at least. Yesterday had been a mess.

Maxwell was the biggest pain in the ass he’d ever met, but the former puppet master was also his sole companion right now, and even if he wasn’t… Wilson wasn’t cruel enough to leave him there. At first, it’d seemed like Maxwell was just having a panic attack, seeing the shadows that were there all the time, but unable to touch them. But when Wilson heard the splash of Maxwell’s tightly held codex, that’s when he knew something was wrong. Very wrong.

And the coughing… he should of known something was up back in camp. Maxwell was an infuriatingly prideful person. He wouldn’t of told anyone anything that showed weakness.

That man was a pain in the neck, honestly. Everything could of been one hundred times easier, if he’d just admitted he wasn’t alright back in camp. He was human for god’s sake. Wilson would of understood, maybe, probably… he was lying to himself, he wouldn’t of trusted Maxwell at all. Maxwell was a liar and sometimes Wilson figured he’d also lie to get out of chores. Maybe he’d been wrong on that end. He couldn’t tell who’s fault this was, really. Maybe it was both of them being idiots. Maybe it was just how it was.

The crack of dawn was a welcome relief to see, Wilson thought, leaving his uncomfortable position leaning against a chunk of stone wall. “Well, another night without the Grue killing us.” He said, mostly to himself, as he stretched.

He wasn’t expecting the half-asleep sounding reply. “Her name’s Charlie.” Maxwell said, the suit coat falling to the stone. “She’s trapped.”

Wilson turned towards the magician. “Whose’s Charlie?”

“The person who stalks in the night. Your ‘Grue.’” Maxwell was looking at the ground as he spoke, not looking at Wilson’s questioning gaze. “Her name is Charlie.”

Wilson froze. The grue, a person. That was… weird to think about. His main experience with the Grue had been in his early days, when he didn’t carry an unlit torch on him 24/7. How anything that fast, that strong, could have even been human at one point, seemed insane. But, this world was messed up in so many ways, he’d believe it. Especially since this seemed like the most genuine thing he’d heard out of Maxwell’s mouth. He sounded sad over it, even.

Wilson walked over and touched Maxwell’s shoulder, trying to give him a small smile. “Come on, we need to get moving.” He said, hoping that this would drop the topic of Charlie. He’d never been good with comforting people. This was the best time for them to cross the swamp, during a hopefully calm period, before the Merms woke up, and hopefully the tentacles were unconscious.

“Did you find the part?” Maxwell muttered as he grasped at the ground, trying to find a good way to get up.

“No, I didn’t.“ Wilson said, shrugging. He didn’t care, at this point. He was more worried about getting back to some semblance of safety. Not that anywhere here was really ‘safe’ but he’d rather be where he had stored supplies and Chester.

“It should be right here.” Maxwell wretched himself up, and Wilson noticed the flinch as he bent over to pick up the codex and suit coat he’d dropped. “It’s the…” he looked at the stone walls and frowned. “The box thing. It should be right here. This is the set place it’s always been. You’ve seen it, there should be a little gnome around.”

Wilson shook his head. “Didn’t find it. I’ll come back and check later, but we need to get moving before anything stirs.” He looked over his companion’s stiff gait. “You sure you can walk?”

“Well, I’ll have to, pal. I don’t think we can survive out here.” Well, Maxwell did have a point. They had, what, maybe enough wood to start a fire? But not enough to keep it going through the night.

“Fine, but once we’re out of the swamp, tell me if you need a break. Don’t overtax yourself.” Wilson had slung his pack back over his shoulders, and picked up his spear as he’d said it.

Maxwell smirked, “Nice to know you care.” Ah, that was the Maxwell he was used to. Already back to taunting and sarcasm.

For once, the scientist rolled his eyes, and started walking. “Yeah, I do. So what?” He retorted, pleasantly surprised at the silence that ensured. He didn’t see the startled look or flush on Maxwell’s face, as the magician caught up to him, keeping pace in silence. They could hear the cry of crows in the trees, which Wilson took as a sign that there wasn’t anything nasty lurking about.

For a few hours, Wilson almost believed that they’d get out without trouble. Almost, at least. He’d been here long enough to know that even the best laid plan was going to screw up eventually, but he’d been hoping that hey, if they were quick, nothing would happen.

Honestly, he figured, he should of seen this coming. A small, but heavy patch of reeds? They shouldn’t of even skirted close to it. Wilson grimaced as soon as he saw the vague bubbles of a few tentacles a few paces away. “Alright, new plan. Run!” He shouted, his feet already moving. “There’s more then one, come on!”

It was a split second decision for him to toss the spear into the muck and grab Maxwell’s arm, pulling the magician along. Wilson didn’t look back, but he could hear them popping up in the trail they left behind, somehow already catching up. “Maxwell, we’re almost to the meadow, come on!”

The only response he got was harsh breathing as they pulled towards the grassy plain. Wilson silently prayed that they’d make it, as he felt a tentacle entangle his legs, the slime seating through to his skin. He pushed Maxwell ahead and sent the man tumbling into the grass as he fell into the mud. He could hear the wild swinging, and reached into his pack blindly, feeling his journal, jerky, the water skin, and then finally! He pulled a loaded reed pipe free of the mess and rolled over, looking over the tentacle for a open spot.

The base was his best bet, and he shot. There was a sick satisfaction at seeing the tentacle go back underground as he stumbled out of the muck and onto solid ground. He might be covered in mud, but they were safer now, at least. He groaned as he wiped the mud off his face, though. That meant he had to go clear a pond of frogs and clean his clothes. Fantastic. “Yeah, I showed that damn thing.” He muttered, looking over his shoulder to see the tentacle pop out of the ground before sinking back into the mud.

“Hey, pal, you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Wilson straightened up, eyes glossing over Maxwell’s posture to check for any noticeable injuries. “Come on, let’s get back before anything else comes our way.”

When they stepped back into the confines of their camp, it took all of Wilson’s resolve not to just collapse in a heap. The scientist instead busied himself with crafting a new spear, sharpening the flint, watching carefully to make sure nothing would pop up suddenly.

It felt like one of those kind of days, to be honest.

Everything was going to go wrong one way or another, but Wilson was going to go nuts if he didn’t get the mud out of his clothes. It was one thing when he was working on growing food to wait until the next morning. But the swamp was a mix of disgusting and damp that he couldn’t stand.

And that meant clearing a pond of frogs.

He’d never met such aggressive and annoying frogs before. Though, that could be said of many creatures around the island. Bees, Frogs, Pigs, Spiders… the list was endless and exhausting. At least he’d started to build bases close by ponds finally. Less trekking and making it a half-day affair just to get cleaned up.

The frogs, however, still were an issue. He scowled at the mass of hoping, croaking amphibians that surrounded the pond.

Maybe he should make a frog trap. Maybe a few dozen. Then he wouldn’t have to chase after the damnable things. Just collect, reset, and wait.

He’d have to test that once he was done cleaning, he mused. Maybe a few prototypes, test a few different styles of trap, see if he could just repurpose bird traps. Wouldn’t be as fun as totally making a new trap design, but at least they’d get the job done.

He busied himself with thinking up plans for a few designs as he chased down frogs, ignoring the sting of their tongues for a chance to skewer them. “Frog kabobs!” He snickered as he pulled them off his spear. “Can’t be worse then the time I had to eat monster meat kabobs.” He tossed the frogs into his pack, after he pulled out his set of extra clothes and soap. They’d all managed to find some kind of extra clothing to wear while here, probably from former survivors. He’d just kept a pair of pants and a button down shirt, both slightly too large, but modified and trimmed as to not trip him up. The soap was something he’d made for ages. Living alone had taught him how to make a simple fat and ash mixture.

Not the most elegant things, but they did their job.

By the time Wilson was done washing up and getting out the mud from his clothes, the sun was setting.

Hopefully, his real clothes would dry by morning, held by the drying rack. Not quite meat, but they certainly needed the fresh air.

The camp was silent. Maxwell had laid down on the grass bedroll they’d left out earlier. Chester bounced over, and Wilson surpassed a smile. “No mater how bad the day is, at least I have you, Chester.” He ruffled Chester’s fur, sitting down on the ground, letting the mobile chest curl up on his lap. He glanced down at his hands to see the scar written across his palm and scowled. Another reason he missed his gloves.

It was always weird when he didn’t wear his gloves, but at least he didn’t have to bother explaining the chemical burns and stains he’d never been able to quite get out to anyone tonight.

He pulled open his pack and with a sharpened piece of flint, went to work cleaning the frogs. To keep himself busy, he treated each one like a dissection. A very rudimentary dissection, but it was good to keep himself busy by naming every little organ and function under the frog’s skin before clearing out the organs and skewering them.

By the time dusk gave way to night, he had fully cooked frog kabobs, and had already eaten his fill. The fire crackled as Wilson laid on the other grass roll, watching the smoke from the fire rise into the clear sky. It always bugged Wilson that no matter how clear the sky was, there wasn’t a single star in the sky. The moon was there at least, but the lack of stars made the nights a lot duller then they once were.

He wasn’t a astronomer, but he’d always enjoyed learning about constellations. One of the few things he and his father had ever shared was a fascination with stars. Any other time he’d brought up science, and they ended up shouting at each other.

He frowned and rolled over, closing his eye. Maybe it was better that he couldn’t see the stars. Too many things he didn’t want to think about, especially his family.


	4. Hound Rush

This wasn’t how Wilson wanted to spend the day. That was obvious from his scowl alone, and enhanced by the way he pulled a football helmet over his ridiculous hair. A pair of spears leaned against the chest. They’d awoken to howling echoing across the meadow right before the break of dawn, and they’d both shared a look of exhaustion.

It was obvious what was coming. Hounds. Morning routines of checking traps and bee hives were forgone, despite having just gotten back on to the routine. They’d swallowed down the last bit of food in camp, and worked on repairing armor and equipment.

Maxwell had just summoned a new dark sword, and watched as Wilson had worked on a new spear. It was odd. The hounds had always been his favorite creation. They were fierce and relentless. If they weren’t so distracted, they’d be the perfect killing machine.

It’d been fun to send them against the other survivors. Now, on the receiving end, he still appreciated them, for he would always have a fondness for them, but he was quite grateful for the fact they’d get distracted so easily.

This was why they stood at the edge of the forest, away from camp, away from Chester. The trees were home to plenty of birds and other small creatures that they could use to distract them and then strike. There were places to hide, too. Wilson had discovered long ago that the hounds could not climb, and would eventually be distracted by another piece of prey.

It was times like this, the endless waiting, that Maxwell really missed the cigars he’d pull out of thin air while on the Throne. They loved to limit what he could do in this world. While he’d rebuilt it, They still were in control. He had access to only the most basic things, since They now controlled the playing field, and somehow were more sadistic then he’d even been.

They didn’t want another incident like him. Each king seemed to have less freedom, and more defenses then before. Almost like They had to learn how to use each new king to their advantage.

The snarling was closer this time. Maxwell leaned against a tree, his sword clutched tightly, night armor forming at a whim. Wilson just sighed, fingers loose around a spear. “We got one more warning, I think.”

“You don’t look too good, pal.”

Wilson turned, “Look, I’m tired. I’m not in the mood for this, alright? And besides, you’re the one who doesn’t look too good, you’re black and blue.”

He brought his hand up to the bandages around his head. The beak gash still hadn’t healed up, even after about a week. “Tired isn’t going to win us this fight, Higgsbury.”

“Again, says the person who managed to annoy two tallbirds and almost die because of that. How many hounds have you sent after us? This isn’t going to be anything new.“

“Who knows what They have done to my hounds, though. They don’t recognize me anymore, so who knows what They might change about them to pick us off.”

Wilson touched his left arm, looking off into the distance. “We’ve fought plenty of hounds since you’ve gotten here. Nothing’s going to be any different.”

“Who knows. It feels like They are planning something. Something feels off, Wilson.”

The howling was closer. “You’re paranoid.” Wilson said, adjusting his hold on the spear. “It’ll be the same as always. We’ll fight the hounds, probably get injured in some way, and in about two weeks do the whole thing again.”

“Mh, still. Something seems off. We’re divided, weaker. We usually fight with more then just two people.”

“Will you just shut up? Everything’s going to be terrible, like usual. I don’t need you making it worse with you overdramatic opinions.”

“Overdramatic, now? You’re the one who’s starting to shout, Higgsbury.”

They’d stopped listening, and Wilson pointed at Maxwell, glaring. “You’re overdramatic! You always are! Everything has to be a big show with you, even when you’re not actively doing it, it’s a freaking show! It’s ridiculous, I can’t stand it! Can’t you just be like the rest of us and accept that maybe we’re just stuck here? Like what is it that they’re going to do to us that’ll be worse then the miserable existence we have here that YOU brought us too!” He threw up his hands, tossing the spear to the ground. “I’m so tired of it!”

“You’re tired of it?! Do you think I asked to originally be drug into this world? Do you think I wanted to lose what I did, Wilson? Do you think I wanted to be tied to that throne?” The dark sword disappeared from his hands as he gestured wildly.

“Yeah, well you didn’t have to spread the misery around!” Wilson stalked up close. “You didn’t have to bring us here!”

“Oh, and what was I suppose to do, huh? They had a plan, and all I did was execute it!”

“This is still your fault! You could of just never contacted me!” Wilson grabbed the tie and tugged him down. “You had other options, but this is what felt best. Bringing other people into your own miserable little world, with false promises.”

“You got what you asked for! You wanted knowledge, you got knowledge. I at least gave you all that!”

“Yeah, knowledge that I still don’t under-“ He let go and turned towards the barking, snarling pack that was headed towards them. “Up the trees. Now!”

Climbing was harder then it looked, especially when pretty much being face to face with a pack of hungry, vicious hounds. Maxwell could feel teeth sinking into his calf as he hoisted himself onto one of the taller branches, trying to kick the hound off. “Higgsbury, please tell me you have darts.” He said, a good smack into the trunk forcing the beast to let go.

Wilson sheepishly looked over from his tree as he climbed higher. “Nope.”

One of the hounds jumped, teeth meeting the branch Maxwell had perched himself on with a sharp crunch. They both looked as it fell back to the ground, taking the half it’d bitten with it. “I think we might need a better plan, pal.”

“I don’t know! You think of something.” Wilson had already managed to get higher up, and Maxwell looked down into the beady eyes that were just waiting for him to make a wrong move. He swallowed and started to go higher, flinching at putting weight on his left leg.

“Guess it’ll have to be the usual then.” Maxwell sought out the familiar weight of the codex in his hands, and felt it appear, a black smoke rapidly disappearing. “I’ll see if I can draw them away, hopefully distract them.” He flipped it open and could just feel the toll on his body as he summoned a pair of shadows.

He let the book fade back into the shadows, and held onto the tree tightly, feeling his vision swim with half there monsters, listening to the snicker snack of the clone’s blades.

A hand wave ordered them farther off, and the hounds gave chase. “Heh, like fox hunts.” He mumbled to himself as they both started to climb down.

“You’re bleeding. Again.” Wilson had kneeled down to pick up his spear, and had noticed the torn leg.

“You have a bite in your arm too, you know.” He retorted, limping over. “That was a bit more unusual.”

“If you hadn’t been such a drama queen, we would have noticed them sooner.”

“Ah yes, put the blame on me, when you’re the one who went on a tirade.”

The scientist pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Look, let’s not argue again. Get ready, and let’s go finish off the hounds, alright?” He removed his hand from his face and held it out, a peace offering. “We’ve got to work together.”

Maxwell sighed and looked at the fallen limb. “Fine, you’re right.” He said, grabbing Wilson’s hand and giving it a shake. “Let’s go get them.”

Wilson smiled, and let go of Maxwell’s hand. “Well, ‘pal,’ let’s go get them.” He said, parroting back Maxwell’s favorite name, before turning back to the forest, heading off.

It took a second for Maxwell to follow after, his face burning. He could tell that the shadows had already lost, as he felt the world slowly reorient itself. He shook his head. Must be a side effect of the codex he’d never noticed before.

Late afternoon light filtered through the trees as they walked, listening for the snarls or howls.

The first noise they heard had them turning around looking for their enemy before Wilson stopped. “I think that’s just my stomach.”

“How helpful of it.”

Wilson snorted as they continued their hunt, before pausing, turning white. Out of the side of his mouth, he said, “Maxwell. Don’t move. They’re right behind you, focused on a rabbit.”

“How many?”

“Three. I’m going to go in and distract them. I see rabbit holes up ahead, so hopefully one will stop and play with a rabbit. You take out that one, then I’ll double back and we’ll take down the last two, got it?”

Maxwell nodded and watched as the helmeted scientist ran into the fray, yelling at the top of his lungs, the hound’s ears perking up as he shot pass them. They gave chase through the plains land. He followed slowly, keeping a good distance as to not attract attention.

Finally, one peeled off, a butterfly fluttering by that was just too tempting for the last hound to ignore. He gave chase to that hound, his leg protesting, but he had no time to pay attention to it. This had to be precise, or when Wilson doubled back it’d be more then one hound a piece.

It jumped, he swung. The snicker-snack of the blade resounded as he felt teeth close around a wrist. Maxwell closed his eyes and swung again. It whimpered as it detached itself, and he hesitated. He’d not heard one whimper since he was on the throne. They didn’t whimper in a fight.

They don’t whimper unless it was to each other, or back when they were just violent pets to the king.

The hound took advantage of this, and lunged at his injured leg. It could smell the blood running down his calf, and he felt it dig in deeper.

He bit his lip and sent the sword through the beast’s back, tasting blood when he felt the tip meet ground. Thinking was hard. It was all a blur of adrenaline as he wrenched the jaw from his leg and heard Wilson getting closer.

Wilson had a few bite marks of his own, and the hounds’ fur was mated with blood. That didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it ended here and now.

He slashed, once, twice, and the thunk of the hound’s body hitting the ground was the only thing that told him to stop.

They looked at each other. Bruised, beaten, tired. And the sun continued to set.

“Say pal, you don’t look so good.” Wilson rolled his eyes at the use of that goddamn phrase, but gave a small smile.

“You don’t look so good either. Come on, let’s head back to base. I’m pretty sure I could sleep for a week.” Wilson’s own injuries looked pretty bad. A glove had been torn, claws across the face. “Certainly harder then I thought it’d be.”

“There were more hounds in the beginning. I’d like to not think about what would of happened if we didn’t know to climb trees.”

Wilson’s laugh was bitter, “Well, it could of been fire hounds. Then we would of been caught in a blazing forest.” He said, leaning on his spear as they walked.

“Mh, as if that would be as bad as being stuck in trees in the middle of winter. It certainly could have been worse.” Maxwell leaned on a tree as they paused for a second, catching their breath.

“I can’t believe we’re actually justifying this attack as not as bad as it could of been.” Wilson said, then snorted. “We’re really embracing the ‘look on the bright side’ attitude now.”

“Mh, now if only it was a bright side and not just the ‘well we’re not dead yet’ side.”

“Yeah well, that’ll come when I figure out how to leave this accursed place.”

“We can only pray genius will come soon.”

He stumbled as Wilson lightly shoved him. “Maybe I’ll just leave you here when I do figure it out, if you’re gonna act like that.”

Exhausted as Maxwell was, he laughed. “Higgsbury, I’d expect nothing else from you.”

“You better not.”

And despite how tired and worn and injured they were, they both laughed and stumbled back to camp.


	5. Meeting Up

The old camp was the same as they’d left it. Burned to a crisp. A few charred drying racks, some dead grass. The only normal feature was the unburned fire pit surrounded by burned wood flooring. Homey, indeed. Wilson sighed and stretched, tossing his pack down on the ground.

That had been a long walk, and it certainly was made worse by the lingering hound injuries, but that hadn’t really been Wilson’s issue. He hadn’t gotten bitten in the leg.

Maxwell, however… Wilson looked back at his sole companion, who was leaning maybe a touch too heavily on an improvised cane as he walked over.

“Think they’ll be here soon?” Wilson asked as he started to sit down, legs crossed, by the cold fire pit. It was late afternoon, but he didn’t quite feel like starting a fire.

Maxwell sat down next to him, looking out into the distance. “Probably. It’s pretty apparent we’re the first ones here.” He turned around to look at Wilson. “How’s the arm?”

That was uncharacteristically kind of him. Probably just going for the easy jabs. “Certainly better then your leg must be after all the walking.” Wilson said, figuring getting the first jab in was easier. “You holding up?”

He watched Maxwell roll his eyes. “Well, the cane made it less unbearable then it could of been.” The magician reached over and poked Wilson’s scabbed over scratches. “Looks like you lucked out on facial scars. Those will heal well.”

“Don’t do that.” Wilson complained, batting away the offending hand before poking Maxwell in the nose in revenge. “They weren’t deep, and it’s not like I scar easily.”

Maxwell moved back from the finger and snorted, but left Wilson alone. The scientist sighed and was about to just doze when he noticed Maxwell summon his book from thin air. The Codex Umbra was always a weird anomaly that Wilson had found fascinating. He’d looked at Wickerbottom’s books, too, but she freely gave him a look at those. Maxwell was more furtive about keeping the codex from anyone else.

He leaned over to get a better look at what Maxwell was up to. A piece of parchment was on one page, and it looked like latin on the other, actual book page. Something about shadows.

He skimmed over the latin before looking at Maxwell’s translation. That was certainly wrong. “You know, that’s actually saying the complete reverse.” He said, poking at the phrase in question.

Maxwell met his eyes over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “You know Latin? And yet you still insist on calling trees piney?”

Wilson scowled and lightly tapped Maxwell’s shoulder in semblance of a punch. If they weren’t both so beaten up, he might have put more effort into it. “Of course I do. I’m a gentleman scientist. I studied it back in university. And I like the word piney.” He reread the page. “Shadow variations?”

Maxwell nodded, and started to turn pages. Wilson was sure that he was just about to close the book when he stopped at a page and moved it over so Wilson could read it better. “I’ve translated it before, but tell me what this page is about.”

Wilson grinned. He’d always enjoyed translation when it wasn’t just stuffy classics. “Alright so, this is pretty simple, but Latin grammar is a pain…”

They’d both carefully poured over the pages of the Codex, Maxwell’s jumping all over the pages not super conductive to understanding the text, but it gave Wilson more of an idea of what was going on. It didn’t help that while it seemed like the magician had been able to get the general meaning, his Latin was terrible.

By the time it got hard to read in the dusk light, they heard footsteps, and the book disappeared with a motion of Maxwell’s hand. Wilson frowned, wondering what had brought that on. Normally he’d of expected the book to just vanish the moment he looked over Maxwell’s shoulder.

A faint light was all they saw first, and that in itself was enough to identify their company. “Willow, it’s good to see you.” Wilson called over, waving.

“I’d say the same to you, but you’re looking a little mauled.” Wickerbottom and Wigfrid were right behind, and Wendy and Webber behind them, Abigail’s faint glow illuminating the camp as Willow flicked off her lighter.

“The hounds look worse, trust me.” He retorted, glad to see his friends in one piece. It was funny. Going through life or death situations really did cement people together. Before all this, he wouldn’t even think to call anyone a friend. Not even when he’d been in university. His only friend was science.

Wickerbottom sat down across from Wilson and frowned. “You were attacked by the hounds too?” She asked, adjusting her glasses. Wilson just nodded.

“There were six or so.” Maxwell filled in, shifting slightly. “They seemed a little more clever then the usual hounds. And stronger.”

Wilson nodded, and looked over his friends. Willow had a bandage around a hand, Wigfrid… well, to be fair, Wigfrid usually had more bandages wrapped around anyway. She was strong, but reckless. Wendy and Webber looked mostly unharmed, but he never could be sure. Wigfrid gave them a thumbs up. “A brave duö, certainly. Father Odin must öf been watching över yöu.” She waved her hand flippantly. “A few days agö, öurs were nö tröuble. A few scratches, minör battle wöunds.”

Wickerbottom, however nodded, and pulled a book out of her bag. “I noticed that. It was strange, they seemed to actually know our strategies. We only had four, thankfully.” She’s pulled a crude pencil and started to make notes. “Did they do anything specific?”

“Jumping about six feet in the air counts, right? We got a bit startled by them and climbed trees.” Wilson said, gesturing to his arm. “We both got bit by some rather jumpy dogs.”

Wendy leaned over. “The foulest creatures, they are waiting for our defenses to weaken.” She said, her voice cold.

“Indeed, kiddo.” Maxwell ruffled her hair. Out of all the people, Wendy, for a long time, had been the only one to get along with Maxwell. Before he’d even arrived, Wendy had said something about feeling a kinship with him. Wilson wondered what that was about, honestly.

Willow poked at the ashes in the pit. “Where are the others?” She asked, flicking her lighter on. “I’d like to get this bonfire started already, but I have to wait, according to Wickerbottom.”

Wilson shrugged, “It’s getting late. I’d of expected the three of them to be here by now.” He said, pulling a piece of jerky out from his sack. “Dusk will end soon.” He muttered through a full mouth.

“Higgsbury, that’s disgusting.” Maxwell said, and Wilson rolled his eyes in response.

Wigfrid leaned back, taking her helmet off. “What are we göing tö dö while we wait, fair friends?” She asked, brushing her hair back. Wilson sighed, grinning as he watched Willow smile at the actor. She really was infatuated, wasn’t she.

“Well, we better all search for them, shouldn’t we. If we wait, they may be in trouble.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow and looked at Maxwell, who was using the cane as leverage to stand up. “Wow, are we developing a heart, Maxwell? Look at you, caring about other people.” He could hear Willow and Wigfrid hide a giggle. Maxwell just rolled his eyes. “But, you’re right. I don’t think they’ll get here by dark.” He used his good arm to get up, and brushed the dust from his pants.

Wickerbottom looked up from her writing. “You two better not be going alone. I have a feeling something bad is afoot, and you’re already injured enough as it is.” Wilson nodded, realizing that in Maxwell’s case, they didn’t even know the half of it.

Wigfrid had already placed her beloved helmet back on. “Well, we wön’t let them gö alöne. Willöw, let’s gö.”

“Abigail and I are coming too. The dark is no problem for us as you well know.” She looked over at Webber. “Are you coming too?”

He nodded and hopped up. “I mean, if it’s spiders, We can handle it!” He grinned and Wilson just shook his head. They were too adventurous sometimes.

Wickerbottom closed her journal, sighing. “Then I better stay here. While I’d rather be able to keep an eye on all of you, someone needs to make sure that if they do show up, they don’t find an empty meeting place.”

They nodded, and Wilson surveyed the group. “We better split up. Willow, Webber, you guys with me. Wigfrid, you take Maxwell and Wendy.”

They split, torches at the ready. Willow took the front, her lighter illuminating the path. Wilson tightened his grip on a torch as he followed behind Webber.

Wickerbottom was right. Something was up. The forest was too silent, even with the rapidly approaching dark, there should have been some noise. Spiders, crows, pigs… nothing.

Webber looked uneasy too, looking right and left constantly.

“Willow, is there anything ahead?”

She shook her head. “Not that I can see. I think we should turn soon, though. If I remember the area right we’ll be at the side of the island soon.”

“Right or left then?”

Webber looked over his shoulder. “I think we should go left.” He said. “I think I hear something coming.”

Willow and Wilson shared an uneasy glance. Something coming this soon? There was a low growl resounding through the woods.

Willow closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. “Why this…” she muttered. “You two back up, I’m gonna set the woods on fire.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea.” Wilson pulled Webber back, however.

“Do you have a better idea, Wilson? It’s a bearger, I’m pretty sure, and the only way to kill it now is with fire.” He shook his head, and tried not to cringe as he saw the pine tree alight with just the touch of her lighter. She held back a laugh, and turned towards them. “Go back to camp. I’ll scout the area.” She said, walking into the fire. He picked up Webber and ran, leaving the torch behind.

The rapidly spreading fire made up for the loss of his only light source. That probably should have been the warning sign that everything was going to go wrong. The plan was too simple. Beargers were pains in the ass even if they’d been ready for it.

To be honest though, the phrase ‘I’m gonna set the woods on fire’ really should have been the telltale sign that things were not going to go well. Willow knew what she was doing with fire, but they’d split up.

The others didn’t have the same warning he had.

He set Webber down, and handed over his backpack. “Get back to camp, tell Miss Wickerbottom that there’s a Bearger about, and stay there. Okay?” He patted the kid. “I’m going to find Wigfrid, Wendy, and Maxwell.”

“Okay… be careful…” Webber said, looking down, fidgeting. Wilson gave him a small push and watched as he ran back the way they’d came.

He couldn’t help but panic slightly. Wendy was small, and sometimes too morbid for her own good. Maxwell was injured, and Wigfrid was… over the top to say the least.

Maybe he should have divided the group better. Taken Wendy instead, or sent Willow off with Wigfrid.

Any other way he organized them, the result would have been the same. He tried to rationalize this as he ran, looking for the ethereal glow of Abigail amongst the burning trees.

Or Maxwell’s stupid head, or Wigfrid’s helmet. Anything, honestly.

The fire kept spreading, even when the earth shook with the force of a bearger’s attack. Wilson cringed at the burning trees falling. “Wendy! Wigfrid! Guys, where are you?”

“Wilson!” Wendy ran towards him, Abigail following. “Wilson, we got split up, and Wigfrid found a bearger.” She took a breath. “And the forest is burning and while I don’t care about myself, but I can’t find Wigfrid or Maxwell…”

“Head back to camp, alright?” He looked at both the girl and the ghost. “I’ll find them, don’t worry.”

At least that was some relief. Both of the kids were safely away from this mess.

He was mentally slapping himself. Why didn’t he just stop Willow until everyone else had left the forest too? This was dangerous and risky and while he was all for risks they were looking for Wes, Woodie, and Wolfgang too.

He swore under his breath, and covered his mouth with his sleeve. There was only one way to find them at this point, since he’d looked the perimeter over. It was a wall of fire now but there was no other option he could see available, and gingerly, he walked into the fire.

It was impossible to see through the smoke, but he followed the angry bear sounds as best he could. He could only hope that the fire had burned itself out wherever the fighting was going on.

Branches fell left and right, one grazing his injured arm’s bandages, setting the paper alight. He ran as it crawled up the bandages and his other hand’s fingers worked to hastily unravel it. He could feel the burns on his fingers, but kept running, inhaling smoke with every breath that the arm he’d been using to filter air was busy.

The fire had left a dead land of charred trees in the distance, and while he couldn’t make out anything that was going on, he could at least tell that the blaze had stopped.

The edge of his sleeve had burned, but he finally tossed away the bandage and covered his mouth again. The clearing seemed so close.

The fresh air was freezing. His eyes stung, threatening to tear, and he coughed harshly.

“Wilson, look out!”

He looked up, but couldn’t see anything. He wondered if maybe this wasn’t the best idea either.


	6. Odd Worries

The smell of smoke and burned flesh hung thick in the air, still, but he could feel a light breeze that would eventually blow away the stench. Birds were chattering amongst themselves in the charred remnants of the forest Willow had burned, as sunlight filtered through the blackened branches. There was the far off sound of an axe, probably Woodie, chopping. Most likely clearing the dead woods of the charcoal trees. The birds didn’t care, as it was not close enough to spook them, they continued their songs. 

Maxwell slammed the base of the cane into a tree trunk. His head ached, he had no time for their fussy songs. He took solace in the sound of their angry chattering and beating wings as the forest settled into silence, the very thing he’d craved.

The fallout from last night had rendered the camp a mess, and he’d made up something about bees, and maybe trying for honey. They’d all been rushing about, and setting up an emergency camp for a meeting that would run far longer then they’d anticipated, they wouldn’t miss him for a few hours.

Wigfrid had ran, spear raised, at the angry, burning bearger, and had fought valiantly for… the first few seconds. He’d followed the method actor, mostly for lack of a better plan, but had stood in the clearing the bearer had made, fire blazing around them, and watched, ready to try and flee at a moment’s notice. He knew he stood no chance, and he’d regretted any decision to find their missing party members.

Willow had shown up and yelled something about getting out, the foolish firestarter. There wasn’t any escape, he’d surveyed the area multiple times. He’d said this, and Willow had been about to make a comeback, when a singed Wilson broke through the burning trees, covered in soot and red in the face.

Wigfrid had gotten smacked into the air by the bearger’s spasming death by fire, and it all gotten worse from there. Wilson was the impact zone, and the two wouldn’t wake up. They’d had to drag their sorry carcasses out of the burned woods. Or at least, they’d tried to, but Maxwell had found it impossible, and Willow had yelled at him, called him useless, but they’d been found by then by a concerned Woodie.

That group had just been a little held up. So the entire exercise had been pointless anyway, and certainly not worth the consequences.

He wasn’t in the mood for his companions. At first, after being freed of the throne, he’d enjoy the chaos that they’d bring. He enjoyed causing it too. Little arguments he could spark amongst his fellow survivors. It had been a nice change from the cold reality of whenever he’d be conscious on the throne, that insufferable music playing forever. But now, it was wearing to sit in the middle of the chaos.

He wanted to laugh at the irony of it. He’d loved to cause chaos back on the throne. But now it was exhausting, and almost boring. Moments where he could just walk off… that quiet freedom was worth quite a bit more now. This is why he’d been rather glad they’d broken up into groups. Less people meant less chaos.

It also prevented things like this. The brooding misery over the rest of the camp was certainly something to avoid, as well as the work behind it. It was sickening to watch.

What was worst though, was that he was worried over it. Worried! Despite all the odds, all rational thoughts, all that he was, somehow, he’d managed to start caring. He wanted them to be okay.

He shook his head, going deeper into the burnt woods. He must of been spending too much time around all of them. Months ago, and god it had been months ago. He’d lost track of time quickly, but Wilson had kept a log. Months ago, he’d of been on the throne and laughed at their misery, awaiting their demise, to bring down his wrath.

And now, here he was, walking and worrying.

An unfortunate pinecone in his path got a good whack, and flew a few feet into the air before arcing. Ah, a destructive impulse. This was something he could satisfy.

He walked over and whacked it again, letting it sail though the sky. But it wasn’t what he really needed, so with a swift turn, he started stalking back the way he’d come.

How could he, the great Maxwell, be so stupid. He wasn’t suppose to care about these idiotic, inane, ridiculous people. Make the deal, watch them suffer, play the game. That’s all he was suppose to do. And when he’d gotten free of that throne, he figured he’d use them to escape. No messy strings attached. They were pawns in a long game, in the end. Disposable. At least, that’s what he’d wanted to think.

God above, how could he have started to even care? He paused and frowned at the sky. When had he gotten so soft? So… human. His skin crawled at the thought. His humanity was the one thing he’d eventually become glad to have shed away on the throne. It’d just held him back.

He had to be going soft. He’d even let Wilson look at the codex! He didn’t do that. Not even Charlie had really ever been given permission to read it, back on earth. And he’d just scooted over and let Wilson translate the damnable thing, and he’d listened and nodded. No complaints or yelling.

Why was he getting so soft? The question haunted him as he walked, leaning more on the cane then he’d care to admit. He was suppose to care about two things. Himself, and Charlie. He owed his assistant and friend that.

He shook his head and tried to clear his mind, barely noticing the change of scenery. Dead trees became alive ones, however, they were the more sickly looking variety of pines. He paused, and sat down, just for a second. His leg was starting to hurt, and his eyes were more tired then he expected them to be. Another downfall of freedom. His eyesight was slowly degrading. It had been months, thankfully, and he still didn’t need William’s glasses yet, but it certainly made life harder.

He snorted. That was always weird to think about. He was William Carter, but in name only. Maxwell doubted there was even a trace of the man he’d been, once upon a time, left in him. They had certainly made sure of that, hadn’t they. Slowly removing everything that had made William Carter, William Carter.

They’d turned him into their perfect puppet. And for how clever he was, he hadn’t seen it coming. He’d played their game, and enjoyed it. There had been nothing else to do. What, was he suppose to just listen to that terrible music again and again? At least putting on a good show was in his blood.

He remembered when Wilson had first gotten to the throne. He’d looked ready to fight, prepared for the worst. Not a record player and a man more weary of life then anything else.

And Wilson set him free. Not that either of them really knew what the key would do.

The scientist had always been odd. He’d had all the reasons in the world to hate him, to leave him for dead the moment someone freed him from the throne themselves.

Now they tolerated each other. Well, he considered this for a moment. More then tolerated, really, tolerated was what most of the survivors did. They could stand each other enough to have a somewhat civil conversation. He could only say that for about two other survivors. And the other two he hadn’t manipulated into creating a doorway.

Wilson was strange indeed. Why he was worried about such a odd man, he’d probably never understand.

Maxwell pulled himself up, using the tree trunk. Enough dawdling in his thoughts. It was dangerous to be so far out without supplies. He almost turned to leave, when he noticed the edge of wooden panels peaking through the grass in the distance, and walked to it.

He looked at the touchstone, and brushed his hand over the stone. Already activated, it looked like. Pity. That could have been useful.

The trek to the camp was long, and it was late afternoon when he returned, slipping in unnoticed. He sat far from the maddening crowd, and summoned the codex. Maybe that would help. Overviewing the new translations, making sure it worked later, in private.

The Latin he’d translated previously read so awkwardly compared to Wilson’s version. His thoughts trailed off, and and he took a second to get refocused.

It wasn’t long before he threw the book to the ground in disgust, unable to even distract himself with that, and returned it to his bag with a snap of his fingers. Wendy was nearby, and cocked her head, watching him.

“Are you okay?” She asked, and he watched as both girl and ghost approached him and sat down. “You seem… frustrated.”

He faked a smile, a sarcastic grin plastered across his face. “I’m fine, kiddo.”

“You threw down your book.” She said, expression blank. “You don’t normally do that.”

He sighed, and looked at the girl. “I’m fine, Wendy.”

But she pressed on. “Are you worried about Mr. Wilson?” She looked at him, slightly tilting her head. “You’ve become less cold, though you’d pretend otherwise. Are you not the one who suggested we find our compatriots?”

“Fine, I’m worried. Happy now?“

"I’m never happy, for I am without my other half alive.” She said, but nodded after a second, closing her eyes. “But that is what I thought. You both seem more at ease around each other now.”

God, she was much too much like Jack. His twin brother had always been preceptive. Out of all the traits she had to take from her father, it had to be seeing right through him. He leaned over and patted her head. “You’re too clever for your age, little Wendy.”

“If I was clever, I wouldn’t be here.” She looked through him, like she was looking at Abigail instead, but the ghost was behind him. “But thank you.”

If there was one thing he’d never understand, it would be how such a small girl contained so much dread. Though, to be fair, she was a Carter. They’d never had much luck in any fashion. They sat in silence for a bit, Abigail hovering close. He too, could hear her whispers, and Wendy nodded once a a while, looking at her dead sister.

“Do you understand her?” He looked at the faint ghost, her flower the most vivid form.

“Of course. She whispers the secrets of the dead to me.” Wendy turned to her sibling. “But she warns me from it. I do not understand, to be fair. Wouldn’t it be best to be joined in death, then separated by this mortal barrier?”

“No, for one who has died envies the living. And she would have your death on her conscious.” He wouldn’t wish that kind of guilt on anyone. There were many unspeakable acts he could and would do if it came down to it, but guilt was heavier then people thought.

“But her’s is on mine.”

“Would you want her to deal with the same burden?”

“Would you have our deaths on yours?” Oh, she was good at turning the tables when she didn’t want to answer a question.

“You haven’t died yet, child.” He stood and started to walk off. “And why would I? I don’t care.” The lie slid easily from his lips. “We will all die. I intend on making the most of what I have. I’d advise you to do the same.” Oh, he cared. He cared too much. Wendy’s constant talk of death, Wilson’s current status… How had he let himself care? Wilson cared too much, and it must of rubbed off. He’d have to put a stop to that.

Somehow.


	7. Annoyance

Wilson turned over, the straw crackling under his weight. His eyes ached, and he closed them tightly, coughing. His skin burned, worse on the bandaged arm then anywhere else. The straw was uncomfortably scratchy against his face and he gave up trying to get back to sleep, slowly sitting up. A fresh bandage was around his left arm.

“Are you alright, Wilson?” Willow was sitting next to him.

“What do you think.” His voice was harsh, and his hacking cough just made his throat feel worse. “What happened?”

She looked to the side, a awkward half grin on her face. “Well… Turned out Woodie, Wolfgang, and Wes were just a little late.” She twisted a finger. Wilson wondered where her lighter was. “There was a bearger, and… I probably shouldn’t of set the whole forest on fire.”

“No, really?” He deadpanned, before coughing again. “Do you have my water skin?” He asked, wishing the taste of smoke would just leave his mouth.

She ignored the earlier comment and passed the container over. “Wigfrid decided that it’d be a great idea to fight a flaming, angry bearger. Which, as you can tell, wasn’t exactly the hot plan she thought it’d be.” She looked passed Wilson, and he followed her sight to see the viking girl on another bed roll, a painful look on her face as she curled in on herself. “I mean, she beat it. But it took a really good shot at her while it was dying, and you just happened to be in the spot where she landed.”

“Fantastic.” He left it at that as he swallowed down water, realizing all at once how dry his mouth was. “Where was Maxwell in all this?”

“That pompous butt?” Willow scowled. “He wasn’t any help. I tried to get him to help me carry you guys out when the blaze had sadly died down, but he was no use. Woodie managed to find us, and helped.”

Wilson refrained from pointing out that Maxwell was currently using a cane to stay on his two feet without crippling himself. Normally he’d just nod. Sounded about right for Maxwell, jerk of the month he was. It was sadly that rare occasion where him not helping made sense.

He’d prefer not to be injured worse, thanks. “How long have I been out?”

“A day. You got a pretty good knock from Wigfrid, that armor’s heavier then she makes it look.” Willow gestured to his head. “Wickerbottom thinks you probably have some kind of concussion. It was a hard impact.”

“Great, just what I needed.” Wilson used his right arm to lift himself up. “Something’s really wrong, Willow. We haven’t been here that long, we haven’t seen hide or tail of any beefalo, koalefant, glommer, heck, I haven’t even seen a mandrake. There’s the sudden hound attacks in great numbers, and now a bearger.” He said, walking past her. “I think we need to start searching for the teleportato parts already. This place is bad news.”

Willow shrugged, following. “It could just be a run of bad luck. We’ve had those before, Wilson. You’re sounding a little paranoid.” Wilson turned around to look at her.

“Willow, how often do we get grievously injured nowadays? We used to get torn up fighting hounds, but now a few bites is about it. In the past two weeks, we’ve managed three people getting knocked out, various injuries that have required more then just some honey poultice or salves, and plans we’ve used for months to stay alive are suddenly becoming useless.” He threw up his hands and turned away to continue walking. “I really sound like Maxwell right now.” He mumbled, mostly to himself. He’d brushed off the magician’s concerns earlier, and yet here they were.

Funny. If he wasn’t so annoyed by this whole issue he might of laughed.

“I still think you’re being paranoid.” Willow said, catching up. “But I guess it wouldn’t be a bad idea to start looking for the things. If only just to avoid the cold, boring, winter.”

“Fine. I just want to get out of here as soon as possible.” He sighed. “I guess we’ll all have to start looking once we split up again. Just better confirm it with everyone.”

“That reminds me, how’s everything been with you? You did get stuck with Mister Big Nose. I’m honestly surprised you haven’t left him for dead yet.”

“He might be a pain, Willow, but I’m not going to leave him for dead. That’s something he’d do, and I’d rather be the better man.” He really didn’t like that idea. He frowned as they reached the fire pit. “I’d like to think he’s getting to be more tolerable.”

“That, or you’re just used to it. He seemed the same as always.” Willow sat down, folding her legs under her. “He’s been quiet, but I don’t trust him. I heard him make something up about bees yesterday, and he just disappeared.”

“Now you’re sounding paranoid.” Wilson sat down too, his legs crossed. “He’s got the same problem as the rest of us, trying to stay alive. I don’t get why you’re so convinced he’s playing some ruse.”

“I just wouldn’t put it past him, Wilson. You told me yourself, he tricked you into building that portal thing. He made deals with all of us. What benefit did he even have getting off the throne? Something’s up.” Willow scowled. “You’re too trusting.”

“Look, I just don’t think you should jump headfirst into a conclusion like that without proof. It’s like saying your theory is correct without any data to back it up.” Wilson sighed, absently rubbing his right arm. “Just, think whatever you want Willow, but I doubt he’s got some grand plan.”

“I think you’re bonkers for trusting him, Wilson.” He let the topic drop, rolling his eyes. What else could the dethroned king do to them? Maxwell was clever, sure. But it was kinda pointless to set something up to kill them all. They survived best as a group. Killing or harming them was signing his own death sentence, too. Besides, what was wrong with at least hoping Maxwell could turn out to be decent. He didn’t particularly care for people, but that didn’t mean he had to be a cynic about it.

“Ah, Wilson. I see you’re up.” He was taken out of his train of thought by Wickerbottom, who joined them at the unlit fire pit. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been toasted over the fire.” He deadpanned. “But seriously, it’s all background ache. We need to get moving. I feel like something’s really wrong in this world.“

"Oh, so now you finally agree with me, pal.” Wilson turned to the right, and watched Maxwell walk over, the cane still supporting him a little too much for comfort.

“Yeah, yeah.” Wilson sighed. “Look, further evidence showed that you might of had a point. So we should plan to move out of this world and into the next as soon as we can.” He didn’t look at the the man sitting down next to him.

“And why would you advise that?” Wickerbottom slid her glasses back up her nose. “I am fine with moving on, but what if the next world is worse?”

Wilson shrugged. “We just don’t know till we move on, right? This place doesn’t have many creatures that would be useful for surviving the winter. There are barely any rabbits, not a single sign of beefalo or koalefants. I’d rather take my chances with a new world then try to get through winter. At least then we can keep moving without freezing to death.”

Wickerbottom nodded, taking out her log book, “Seems reasonable. So, we’ll need to start searching for the parts again.” She frowned as she held out the newest map she’d worked on. “I haven’t seen any of the locations when we’ve been exploring so far. I doubt I’ve seen the limits of the island, so they hopefully are just where we haven’t looked yet, but normally we’ll have stumbled on one by now.”

Wilson nodded and handed back her notes. “That’s what I was thinking, too. But maybe Woodie and his group have found one. We’ll have to ask before we split up.”

Wickerbottom closed the map up and put it back in her bag, getting up. “When they get back, we’ll discuss this.” She said, readjusting her glasses. “I’m going to check on Wigfrid.” She said, walking off. Willow glared at Maxwell as she got up to follow.

“Pal, didn’t we find one of the places a piece should have been?” Maxwell asked, frowning. “We didn’t find it, but I’m pretty sure there was suppose to be a part there.”

“Look, I have to say we might of missed it. I had a lot on my mind when we were there.” Wilson waved him off. “Besides, how can you be sure it was where it should be? You were out of it most of the time we were there.”

“I’d like to think I’d know where my own creations should be, Wilson.”

Wilson snorted. “You’re really full of yourself, you know?” He could hear the grumble of annoyance, and instead of a retort, he watched Maxwell snap to summon his codex. He hoped he’d be able to get another glance at it. Even if ‘magic’ existed, there had to be some form of scientific basis for it. Something to make it tangible. While Wickerbottom’s books seemed more to be her own type of magic, as they actually contained the information described by the title, the Codex Umbra was full of diagrams and information he could read and try to piece together, as he’d seen earlier.

He shifted over, peeking over Maxwell’s shoulder. Something about how to keep hold of shadows… he tried to skim more, before the book was promptly closed. “Can I help you, Higgsbury?” Maxwell glared at him and scowled.

Wilson shrugged. “Figured you might need more Latin help.” He lied. Well, partially. That had been in the back of his mind, but his curiosity was in the forefront. He was dying to try to understand this magic nonsense. There had to be a rational reason for it, and how it functioned!

Besides, it’d been kinda fun to work on something that wasn’t for their survival. He hadn’t really had much use for Latin in years.

“I don’t need your help.” Well, that was a different tune. “It’s mostly done.”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “Your Latin is terrible. You mix up subject and particle, and half the time your sentences say the complete opposite of what they are.”

“So? It’s working, all the same. You should keep your nose out of where it doesn’t belong.”

“You were asking my help a few days ago!”

“Yes, and that was a mistake I’m not going to make again! As I’ve said before, keep yourself out of my business, Pal.” The codex disappeared with a wave as he got up and stalked off, leaving the cane behind in his frustration, rather limping away. Wilson gritted his teeth. They’d been actually somewhat getting along before, which was a vast improvement over the ‘I am five seconds from leaving you for dead’ feeling of when Maxwell had first been dethroned. And now it was back to the same old, same old. Joy. He pushed away the thought of Willow’s earlier words and accusations against Maxwell. The man wasn’t much of a threat. He’d been knocked out by tall birds, for god’s sake.

He closed his eyes for a second, before getting up and grabbing the cane, following Maxwell. He didn’t need his camp partner making his injuries worse. He’d like to get back to his own camp at some point. The walk back was already going to be hell. He didn’t need to add Maxwell complaining to it.

Besides, the old camp was unnerving. The missing forest only really added to the abandoned feel of their old camp, even with all of them walking about. It struck him as wrong, that they shouldn’t be here.

…Maybe Willow was right, he really was getting paranoid.

He wordlessly handed over the cane, and walked off, leaving a surprised Maxwell behind. There wasn’t any need to talk to someone who was so stubborn and liked to go back on what had been an enjoyable experience the day before. He’d make sure things like injuries didn’t get worse, but if Maxwell was going to act like a five year old, then he wouldn’t waste his breath trying to talk to him.

He’d rather just see if everyone would agree to his plan, and get away from the burned woods and camp.


	8. The Grue

Darkness had settled in comfortably for hours now, and if it wasn’t for the torch Wilson held in his hands, they’d be very, very, screwed. There wasn’t time to stop, and despite the fact that it should be a full moon, the cloud covered what should be an easy source of light. Maxwell clutched his arms. It wasn’t even the late season of fall, but the nights had gone from moderately chilly to freezing. Curse his thin suit jacket. He’d love to be able to summon that wonderful coat his projections had used when Wilson and Willow had originally traveled through the worlds to the throne. He missed it almost as much as he missed the cigars.

It was probably going to start raining, knowing his luck. Days were getting shorter as they approached winter, and they’d been held back at the old camp for far too long. Wigfrid had been out for days, and the firestarter had been quite worked up about it. And due to that, Wilson had decided to stay. He wasn’t about to do the stupid thing and go back to camp alone, as much as he’d of liked to, so they’d both stayed, despite an obvious wish to be anywhere but there. Or around each other. He’d been trying to avoid the scientist, especially when working through the endless pages of Latin the codex seemed to produce. But, thankfully, it seemed Wilson had had the same idea, and had been checking on Willow and Wigfrid, helping Wickerbottom with her maps, and playing with Webber and Wendy.

Once again, the endless compassion the scientist seemed to have was baffling. And how it’d been… rubbing off on the former king. It was ridiculous. The only reason to care about any of their… his, they weren’t some kind of matched set, his companions, was that they were his only hope for survival in this dratted nightmare world. The magic he’d been given, had come with a price that he hadn’t particularly anticipated. His already poor health had declined slowly over the years he’d worked with the codex.

And that certainly played a part in why he hadn’t broken off from this godforsaken group. It’d only become more apparent recently, just how frail he’d become. Any damage was a recipe for disaster. He still was limping from the hounds, for god’s sake. At least he’d been able to ditch the cane, even if he still had to be around the scientist.

The torch light flickered, and Wilson paused, looking back. “I don’t think this one’s going to last that much longer.” That had to be the most they’d said to each other all day.

“We don’t have another torch, do we, Higgsbury.” Fantastic, just what they needed. “If you’re asking if I have any supplies for one left, the answer is no. We used them to make sure we didn’t die last night and I haven’t seen enough grass yet for more.”

“Well, it’s about to run out, so I’d prepare now, then.” Wilson looked up at the inky black sky, the clouds so thick that even the most minor light from the moon couldn’t make it. “We shouldn’t be in the dark that long, morning should be here soon, but… Well, better safe then sorry.”

“If it was safe, we’d have an extra, Wilson. Let’s just get it over with. Are we going to do the run for our lives plan, or just sit here and wait?” Not that either plan was particularly effective in avoiding Charlie, but with one they at least felt like they weren’t waiting for inevitable death, and with the other, well, they wouldn’t run off into the ocean by accident. He closed his eyes for a second, summoning up the nightmare armor that thankfully he hadn’t worn out yet.

Charlie would probably destroy it in two hits, but it was worth wearing, any chance to stay alive was useful.

“I see a faint glow up ahead, I’m guessing fireflies. I don’t know how long it’ll take to get there, but… we’ll avoid the darkness if we run for them.” Wilson said, tightening his grip on the torch. “We probably should start running, now.” The scientist sped up, legs carrying him faster then the magician could keep up with.

Maxwell tried to look ahead, squinting to see if he could find the faint bright specs against the dark horizon, but no luck. He hoped Wilson knew what he was talking about. He focused on trying to keep up. His injured leg was screaming with every step, but the light from Wilson’s torch was dimmer and dimmer as the scientist got ahead of him, until it completely gave out. The darkness was all consuming, as if he’d closed his eyes.

Vague, incoherent whispers from every side. he shuddered as something skidded against his leg, catching his foot. He braced for impact, and rolled as he hit the ground, taking heaving breaths.

He could feel claws scratching at his face, and gritted his teeth, listening for the telltale signs of Charlie. That hiss in the air when she came close. He’d tried many times before to reach the real her, the one not cloaked and hidden by Them, and yet, despite all the failures, when he heard it, he still cried out, “Charlie! It’s me, Maxwell.”

It didn’t help, he could feel something colliding with his chest, and he gasped. Even with the armor taking the brunt of the damage, his ribs were still healing. It was cold, so terribly cold now.

He tried to take a deep breath, surpassing a shiver. So this was how he was going to die. Not by anyone else’s hands but the one person he’d let down most of all. Poetic, really. She deserved it, getting to enact revenge on him. He wouldn’t deny her this one last pleasure, seeing as he’d ruined everything else for her. Charlie deserved so much better, and now she was trapped within this nightmare, transformed into the shadows themselves.

The only thing he was more sorry for was that he’d never found a way to pull her back from Them.

He flinched, hearing the nightmare armor shatter with another hit. Wouldn’t be long now, then. He closed his eyes, ready for the last hit.

“Hey! Back off!”

The light was faint, and it went pitch black before he heard a grating noise, and sparks produced, something catching on fire. He squinted, seeing the silhouette of the scientist against what looked like a burning bush.

“Oh, thank god, that worked.” Wilson’s voice was a welcome relief from the whispering shadows. “I was worried that I didn’t have any flint on me.”

“You could have mentioned this sooner.”

“I wasn’t sure if I could get a reliable spark. We might have just gotten lucky. I’m going to see if I can find any more grass and twigs while it’s still burning, then we can get moving again.”

“Wilson.” The scientist’s footsteps stopped. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, you owe me a few times over now.”

“My charming personality doesn’t make up for it, I assume?” He could have almost smirked at the snort of laughter as the scientist walked farther away. That was somehow comforting, but he didn’t wish to dwell on why. He was already too tired to get up, much less deal with a confusing mess of emotions he hadn’t touched in what seemed like eons. His chest ached, he wasn’t even sure if he could feel his legs, but somehow, it didn’t matter.

He was alive yet another day.

That was as much as he could ask for. He closed his eyes for a brief second.

Something was shaking him. “For someone who cares about how damp his suit gets, you certainly don’t mind sleeping in the dirt, do you?” He shrugged the hand off his shoulder, squinting at the now bright light. He didn’t particularly need to see to hear the smirk across Wilson’s face.

“I don’t think involuntarily passing out can really be counted as ‘choosing to sleep in the dirt,’ Higgsbury.” He slowly sat up, wincing at the soreness of his chest. Not as bad as the tallbirds had inflicted, but it stung.

“Still, gave me time to make a new stash of torches. Hopefully we won’t have that problem again.” Wilson gestured to the bag on his back as he sat down. “So…” He looked away. “You weren’t kidding when you said that the monster in the night’s name was Charlie, were you?”

“Why would I kid about something like that?” Frankly, he didn’t expect Wilson to remember that.

“Oh, I don’t know.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at his hand. “You do have a tendency to lie.”

“Yes, well, not about this.” He couldn’t even find the energy to be angry. Wilson did have a point, anything he said should be met with distrust and suspicion. He’d tricked the man into building the doorway that had drug everyone here, for god’s sake. “Charlie was… a friend.”

Wilson looked back at him, disbelief across his face. “You, of all people, had a friend? I can’t believe it.”

“She was my assistant, back before all…” He gestured at the ground. “This.”

“Oh, so… another ‘magician.’ A helping hand with that book of yours.” He almost spat out the word magician. Maxwell resisted the urge to laugh.

“For someone who’s entire life now is at the whims of 'magic’ you certainly do detest it. And no, she was my assistant. For shows. She had nothing to do with the Codex, itself.” He paused, leaning forward onto his knees. “Anyway, let’s get going.” He started to lift himself up, using his arms for leverage, when he was stopped.

“Wait. So how did she come here?” Wilson’s face was hard to read, for once. A mix of curiosity and disbelief. “Why would you bring someone you call a friend here?”

“She came here the same time I did, Higgsbury. It was my fault, and They turned her into what she is now, as punishment.” He pulled his arm out of Wilson’s grip, and stood up, brushing the dirt off his pants.

“Punishment?”

He sighed. “Leave it alone, Wilson.” He turned away from the other. Why did the man have to be so curious all the time. He didn’t want to think about it. He’d thought about it enough last night, when he was ready to die at her hands.

“No, I won’t. If she’s the grue now, what did she do?” Full of merciless questions, wasn’t he. Stupidly curious scientist, didn’t he know that something didn’t need to be known.

“She did nothing!” He whirled around on his heel, scowling. “All she did was happen to be someone I cared a great deal for, and they decided that to punish me, she would become another one of their pawns!” He could hear birds leaving their perches at his outburst. He sighed and turned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just… just leave it, Higgsbury.” He wished he couldn’t remember the look she gave him as he failed to keep Them away from her. He’d failed at the one thing he’d promised her when they’d ended up here. “Let’s get going.”

The silence was thick as they walked. Meadows turned into plains of grass, a few abandoned tallbird nests here and there, but no sign of beefalo. Surprisingly, a patch of green grass stood out, nothing but dark flowers around it.

“Isn’t this where the ring usually is?”

“Yes.” He started to gather up the flowers, figuring he’d need new armor anyway. “It seems all the parts are missing.” He didn’t particularly feel like talking, but it needed to be said. It was troublesome to see that maybe they hadn’t missed the box part at all. It’d just never been there. What were They trying to do? Kill all of them? They were the ones who’d egged him on into finding people.

“And that doesn’t concern you, at all?”

“Of course it’s concerning! They’re changing the game on us, and if there’s one thing I’m not fond of, it’s this.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose again. “I’m trying to think of why They’d do this. What end does it meet.”

“You’re the one who made this entire place, shouldn’t you have some idea of what’s going on?”

“Believe me, Wilson, I wish I did! Maybe then we wouldn’t have to fight for our lives quite so much. You’ve been on the throne, you’ve felt Them! They might let you have reign, but They also hold the strings.”

“So? They still have to use the ruler of the board to make changes. I doubt WX-87 let Them do this.”

“They have far more power then you think, Wilson.” He frowned. “They might have manipulated WX into changing things, may have struck a deal, might have just plain gone behind WX’s back, if they’re not strong enough to hold Them back. They know how to get what They want.”

“If you’re so sure about Them, why don’t you go back and fix things, then? Or maybe Willow was right all along and you do have some horrendous plan. Maybe I’m just stupid for thinking you could be different.” Wilson crossed his arms. "Maybe you’re just here to soften us all up, make us think you’re not just the jerkface who brought us here. Maybe you’re just toying with us again! You certainly don’t act like you particularly care.”

"Do you think I’d make myself suffer for some stupid, contrived plan like that?”

“Well, for someone who showboats so much, you certainly don’t live up to it!” Wilson scowled, clutching his arms tighter. “I wish I could of just left you for dead, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess!“

“You might as well next time, then, Higgsbury.” Maxwell’s voice fell flat. Any other time, he’d of expended the energy to argue. But this killed any urge to fight it. He was tired, he’d had to reveal things he didn’t even want to think about. “Let’s get back to camp.”

He stalked past the scientist, not even sparing a glance back. Why did he care so much for Wilson’s opinion anyway? Why did something not sit right with hearing Wilson say that he wished he’d just left Maxwell for dead. God knows he would of left himself for dead.

He pinched his nose yet again, finding that it relieved a little of the building headache. He wished he didn’t care so much.


	9. Mistakes

The camp was oddly quiet. Wilson lifted his head from the straw mat, and blinked slowly, adjusting to the light. They’d made it back to camp in silence, the day before, arriving just before midnight fell. “I’ll take watch.” The only thing Maxwell had said since they’d argued at where the ring thing should of been. Wilson had taken the prudent measure, and gone to sleep.

He’d been frustrated with how odd Maxwell had been acting. Part of it was Willow’s earlier words, simmering in the back of his head, plus the outburst when he’d tried to help with the codex again.

There were many questions Willow had managed to make him think of. Why would someone who’d claimed to be so powerful have been so reckless in the past few weeks. Not that Maxwell hadn’t been reckless before, but since they’d all split up, it felt like he was taking more risks, doing stupid maneuvers. He seemed so much weaker then he had on the throne. So prone to injury. Almost pathetic, really.

The fact he’d volunteered to go look for Woodie, Wes, and Wolfgang. And they’d just happened to run into a bearger. And Willow had mentioned he’d disappeared, lying about bees or something.

How convenient, too, that there was Charlie, and a sob story that explained nothing. So their attacker in the night might have been a woman named Charlie that had been his assistant ages ago, who got accidentally brought into this nightmare. Someone he regretted doing this to. It made Wilson want to laugh. Though, looking back, he could tell something had upset Maxwell enough in that conversation. He’d sounded… absolutely sure of the fact this Charlie had done noting to warrant ‘punishment.’ And so tired. That had been weird to see.

Still, why should he trust Maxwell, of all people. Why’d he even say that he’d wanted to try to trust him? He’d trusted him once, and this is where he ended up.

He sighed and stood up, too aware of the rumbling of his gut to bother with the slew of thoughts concerning an arrogant jerk. “Chester! Here, buddy!” He’d left some harder to perish things in the little monster, and even if he didn’t, the company would be nice when he went out to gather berries. The fuzzy chest was like a helpful dog.

The fuzzy chest bounced over from where he was sleeping, but he looked… rather full. “Alright buddy, what’d you get in you. Open up, come on.”

The little chest happily opened his mouth, showing off the eyebone they kept inside so he didn’t wander off, and a familiar large black book.

“Why’d Maxwell leave the Codex in you?” The book was never out of Maxwell’s hands or bag, honestly. He flipped it open carefully, anxiously waiting for it to be some sort of fake out. A hostile terror in exchange for yesterday’s arguments… sounded like something Maxwell would do.

It was just paper. A heavy, bound book, filled with Latin and scraps of paper with messily written translations. Diagrams of various things, handwriting in the margin. He closed it gingerly, and was about to place it back within Chester’s mouth when he noticed one scrap sticking out of the top.

He couldn’t help but read it, the handwriting more deliberate then the hastily scribbled notes, and on fresher paper.

‘Higgsbury, I leave the Codex Umbra in your care. I’m taking you so kindly offered advice to go and fix things.’ He could almost hear the sarcasm dripping from Maxwell’s words, but continued reading. ‘I doubt I will be coming back, so I’ve left you the Codex in the hopes it will get you and the rest of your friends away from here. I hope this will suffice as payment of my debt to you.’ It was signed simply, Maxwell.

Wilson sat down, crosslegged, staring at the note, halfway expecting the book to disappear from under his hand. This had to be some sick joke, right? Maxwell was good at those. He’d been half joking when he’d said that Maxwell had owed him one.

He was just going back to the throne? Had he been that harsh in his words? All previous thoughts, all the worries of betrayal, were disregarded. He thought back to the argument. And then it hit him. The last thing he’d said, ‘I wish I could of just left you for dead, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess’ echoed back.

He’d straight up accused him of everything he’d told Willow he didn’t believe, then said he wished he was dead. Classy. The stress of worrying about the damnable parts had been getting to him, and her words had haunted him, and he took out his frustration on the easiest target. His stupid paranoia had gotten the best of him, for once.

His only companion in a day’s walk. Who he’d forced to spill something that now he was looking at it under the light that maybe he’d been overreacting and overstressed, seemed to be a genuine thing that Maxwell regretted. Which seemed impossible, but then again, this place was full of impossibilities. What was one more to add to the pile, like Maxwell actually having a heart. Wilson snorted. He was blind and stupid, easily letting other’s worries influence his own. He should of known better. Willow had good instincts, but she also held grudges. And he couldn’t particularly blame her for not trusting Maxwell, she had good reason not to, just like the rest of them.

But he’d been around the idiot long enough to know that the man held no interest in serving Them. He had the same problem as the rest of them, trying to stay alive. Isn’t that what he’d told Willow?

“He couldn’t of left that long ago, right Chester?” He looked at the walking chest, hoping for a response, but Chester just sat there, tongue out. “You’re real helpful.” He said lightly, and shook his head, biting his lip as he stared at the book. His chest constricted. He’d messed up, hadn’t he? Maxwell was a pain in the ass, but he doubted he deserved to hear that.

Still, he shouldn’t of gotten to the door yet. The door itself was a two day walk, and hopefully he’d catch up to the magician, seeing as the magician was still limping.

And besides, with how fragile Maxwell was, there was no way he’d make it back to the throne room, right? He could catch Maxwell, apologize, and hand back the codex. The man wouldn’t have to go through the entire five levels down to the throne room, and give up his freedom.

He didn’t exactly know why he felt so bad, but he’d let paranoia get to him, when he’d sworn to himself that he wasn’t going to sink to Maxwell’s level, he’d just spat angry, false words. And maybe Maxwell deserved some of them. But he still shouldn’t of said it.

He pulled his backpack out from between the chests, and stuffed it with supplies and the Codex. Jerky he’d been stockpiling for winter, when it’d be even harder to catch birds, seeds he’d picked up to plant. There were torches missing from his bag, but he couldn’t care less. He had plenty left, for two days, as long as he used them sparingly.

He looked over at Chester, who was sitting patiently. “I’ll be back soon, alright? Keep an eye on camp.” Chester couldn’t do anything, but it made him feel a little less like he was panicking. Just a normal trip out.

For supplies… and to find the idiot he’d driven back to the throne. Why don’t you go back and fix things, what a wonderful suggestion he’d made. Curse stress for getting rid of the filter between his brain and mouth. That was practically signing a death sentence, going back. As Maxwell had said, They held the strings.

His spear was the last thing he grabbed, a familiar weight to it. It was solid, grounding him to the fact that he had to do this. He was going to find Maxwell, return the book, apologize like the gentleman he was suppose to be, and deal with whatever the hell came next then.

Late morning bled into late afternoon, and the doldrums of walking were starting to get to Wilson as he checked the compass for what felt like the thousandth time. Five seconds later, he checked it again. Still northwest.

It’d been a long time since he’d been out on his own for more then just a few hours. The buddy system was effective, and it certainly passed the time. He even missed the occasional complaint.

For a former hermit, he mused, he was certainly used to company now. Company he somehow enjoyed.

As dusk fell, he could hear the skittering of spiders, and he wondered if Maxwell even had a weapon. The man was a walking disaster. Would he end up dead before he’d even get to the door?

A shiver went up Wilson’s spine at the idea. He didn’t actually want Maxwell dead. The man was a pain in his side, but they’d… almost been getting along until the bearger happened.

What’d changed so drastically that they’d been back to their usual antagonistic and bickering ways, from when Maxwell had first ended up just like the rest of them. His paranoia was one, but Maxwell had been acting different too. Why, though? Despite the injuries, they’d made a pretty good team against the hounds.

Wilson pinched his nose. What was it that his mother used to say? Ah yeah, that he made all his own problems. If he just had some restraint, then maybe they wouldn’t be doing this. He wouldn’t feel guilty that a man he once hated was heading back to servitude, to a force they didn’t know anything about, except that They liked to see them suffer.

He shook his head. He had to stop dwelling on it. What was done was done.

All he could do was fix things.

* * *

Maxwell’s torch was bright enough that he could see the tree in front of him, and nothing else. In a way, he almost wanted to just set it on fire for more light.

Still, it didn’t matter if he did it or not. He wasn’t going to see the consequences. Only a few more hours, he estimated, until he found the door he was looking for.

He’d made up his mind on the walk back to camp. At first, he’d been frustrated by Wilson’s apparent position that he’d bother tricking them into letting down their guard. For what ends? Why would he bother caring about any of them, if all of this was a ruse.

Then, he’d decided, rather blandly, that the best thing to do was just fix it. Wilson had made the suggestion. They’d all be happy, free of this world, and most importantly, free of him.

He’d of laughed at himself, once upon a time. He’d gone soft. Far too long of a time spent with the fools.

He could hear the spiders behind him, and walked on.

What was it that he’d said to his little niece? He intended to 'make the most of what he had?’

What a joke. He had nothing, and anything he cared for was ripped away, as usual, by his own faults. The only thing he’d had left was the codex.

He’d left it with Chester.

Another sign he was going soft. Maybe it would just be better on the throne. He’d be back in control. Manipulate the game to his whims. Ignore any trickling of emotion besides remorse. Trapped in his own hell.

They were just going to have to deal with it. He was tired of Their games. And while he’d never control Them, maybe, he could keep Them away from everyone else.

He almost laughed.

“I’ll be back with you soon, Charlie.” He muttered, continuing forward. He’d failed her, he wasn’t about to fail his niece… or not pay back his debt to Wilson. He cared, somehow, about that. Funny, how things changed. 


	10. Waiting Game

There was no one at the door when Wilson stepped into the clearing of dark flowers. Not a single soul. His heart caught in throat as he approached the door, hoping that maybe it would open, signifying that it hadn’t been used.

He should of known that it wouldn’t, the way his luck worked. It’d been activated, and now the only game he could play was waiting. He sighed and unshouldered the pack, letting it fall to the forest floor with a thud.

He and Willow had tested the door at first, before they’d actually descended through all five levels. Time moved differently once you entered, no matter how long you spent in the first world, if someone else was on the surface, one day would have passed. Second level failure, two days, and repeat. So, if Maxwell were to fail, and by god, Wilson hoped he did, he’d only have to wait at maximum five days to stop him.

At least, that’s what it used to be. They might have changed it. But there was no other plan. If two people were to take on the descent, they had to enter at the same time.

All he could do was wait.

* * *

He shivered, the divination rod an icicle in his grip. He couldn’t see past the blustering snow, the wind howling at his ears, and yet he trudged forward, listening for the steady reaction of the divination rod. Something was nearby, certainly. Not that he could see it, but it was there. He’d hopefully stumble upon it soon enough.

How many days had it been? Maxwell couldn’t really remember. He only paused from searching when he needed to find food or when his body became too cold to continue on. He relied mostly on torches, rather then campfires. It was a race, after all. To find them before he died some bitter, humiliating death in the cold.

He’d found the lever so far, at least, and avoided a nasty confrontation with the MacTusks. A few blow darts that’d been intercepted by his armor. He’d kept the darts, hoping to find a pipe soon enough. That’d make it easier to find some foods. Berries only went so far, as they didn’t grow back. The pengull’s colonies were also few and far between.

A thermal stone was pressed tightly to his chest, held in place by hastily made armor. It’d been hours since he’d last let it heat up, and he could feel the last bit of heat slowly seeping away.

He had to keep on, until night at least. He didn’t have enough wood for anything longer then the darkest part of the night.

All he could do was press forward.

* * *

Wilson rung his hands as he sat down, surveying the makeshift camp he’d set up. He’d decimated the small grove of trees around the door in order to avoid burning anything down by accident. A fire pit, and a bed roll.

He hated feeling so useless, but there was nothing else he could do but wait. It was day two. Maxwell must of made it through world one, then. Or else They’d decided that one could die permanently in the lower levels on the way to the throne.

It sounded like something They’d do. A bitter kind of joke, especially, seeing as They’d also removed all form of escape aside from taking the Throne in order to fix things. Maybe that was how they’d pick them all off, one by one.

He sighed, trying to avoid the grim possibilities that came with that train of thought

He slowly opened the Codex that he’d left next to him instead, and reviewed the translation Maxwell had written. The first pages of translation had such a different handwriting style, like it’d been done by a much more careful hand, someone who was constantly checking for mistakes.

The later pages slowly descended into a messy scrawl, like someone had started to care less about the quality, and more about just getting through the book.

Around the halfway point, he found the notes were illegible. Half insane scrawls of nonsense.

Then, they were back to being clear and careful, but it was different. Certain traits stayed, the J’s looping into other letters, but it was vastly more angular in comparison to the old notes.

It was mostly to busy his hands, going through the Codex. It felt wrong, despite the fact Maxwell had written explicitly that he’d left it for Wilson. But the translations were different from the book itself. Fraught with error, and sometimes odd little notes in the margins. Happier ones are about discussing something with Charlie, possibilities of various acts.

Then there are the ones that note blacking out after trying a certain spell, shadows at the corner of his eyes, horrid whispers he can’t understand. Some of them are in such a scrawl that Wilson can barely make them out, mentioning hands trying to extinguish lights. Those are what make his stomach sink, and he has to put the notes to the back of the Codex, to focus on just the Latin, the diagrams from the book.

Some pages have obviously been torn out and replaced, but he is gentle with every page, just the same. It’s not just the fact that this book might have the keys to their escape. It’s someone else’s book, and notes. It’s the respectable thing to do, especially since he’s been entrusted with it.

Some of the diagrams do not explain anything. It’s terrible, really. There’s the life amulet, and it explains how to forge one, but there is still no clues to how it works, or why it works.

He gets to the point where the fire is almost dead, and his eyes are tired, and he’s been staring at the diagrams of the obelisks for so long he could see them if he closed his eyes.

He puts it to the side, filled with more questions then answers about this world, and throws a log onto the fire. There’s more days ahead, he doesn’t have to read the whole text at once, he has to remind himself. He’s got three more days of waiting, at most.

He hopes it’s just one more day.

* * *

The air is hot and humid, in comparison to the cold world he just left. He wants to laugh, because They would do something like that. He’d been so acclimated to the cold and now thrust into what he’s wanted, warmth, it’s misery.  

Still, not having to rely too much on the thermal stone was a relief. He’d brought it, a spear, the blow darts and half destroyed armor. It’s better then nothing, at this point.

When frogs start raining from the sky, he can’t bring himself to even care besides the obvious concern of avoiding their stupid sticky tongues and stinging saliva.

The parts are easier to find, at least, without snow blindness and being chased by Mactusk’s hounds away from certain sets. The days pass by more easily, at times, and yet, other days it is like wading through molasses as things are there, but the playing field is so vast, or as he soon learned, one has to stop to set a broken arm, and to let it heal.

Sanity is much more delicate game now. To pass obelisks, he’s had to drive himself insane without the Codex, and the moment he is through, find a way to regain some stability. To die at shadowy hands wouldn’t be much of task, but he intends to see this through.

It’s almost winter when he reaches the end of the world, and sets up the portal, trying to dodge bishops and knights and tempt the rook into destroying them. It’s a few seconds before the rook aims again, when he gets the portal active and moves on.

* * *

Wilson had found it harder and harder to leave camp, just for a second, even. He wants to make sure that Maxwell can’t just go right back into the door, He can ration out food, he’s done it before.

To pass the time, he starts writing the translations out. There is blank paper in the back and a hastily made pencil out of a twig and sharpened charcoal is usable, though Wilson, for once, misses his typewriter. It came out neater then the messy scrawl he gets with his shabby pencil, even if he sometimes flubbed the spelling.

There are no warnings in the book, he notices, as he puts down the description of a shadow he’d encountered in a few slips down into madness. There is nothing that notes that this shadow would bite your head off if you weren’t careful, or how they vanished and could reappear behind you in seconds.

He adds these thoughts in, an afterthought to the translation itself.

* * *

It’s winter again, and he regrets leaving the thermal stone behind. There’s a terrible looking hat, but he slides it on gratefully. It’s warm, and he’s come too far to let a regrettable fashion choice be the reason behind his death. He loathes it greatly, but it is warm, and that is enough.

The blizzards aren’t as frequent, but when they happen, it leaves the world covered in feet of snow, and he ends up snowbound.

The first time it happens, he almost starves waiting for the mild light to melt the snow. After that, he keeps a pack of emergency food he doesn’t touch except for when the snow is too thick to find anything.

He’d lost track of days so long ago, but he’s sure it must be over a hundred days for him, since he’d seen any other intelligent life.

He finds himself thinking back to Wilson as he picks up the box and gnome from the walled set. He’d never been sure if Wilson’s comments on the lawn gnomes had been a joke, or the scientist was reading too much into their existence in this world, and the fact the pig king paid handsomely for odd trinkets.

It led him to the dull ache in his chest, the last reminder of broken ribs. An arm guiding him to a similar set piece, chastising him for stubbornness and yet sounding so worried. Honey covered bandages tied tight enough to set the ribs. A suit coat haphazardly covering him when he woke up.

He shook his head, shoulders slumped. Wilson was a better man then he’d ever been, and he hoped this would be enough in exchange.

* * *

Day four. Wilson had taken to pacing between bouts of translation. He hadn’t gotten very far into it, he was trying to write as legibly as possible, and sometimes he completely smudged a page, forgetting to lift his arm up from the page.

It was frustrating. The writing felt incoherent at some places, and other times, made complete sense, except for the part of how these things worked. They just did, seemed to be the connotation of the Codex.

He could assume it did, he’d seen Maxwell use the book often enough. Shadowy clones that had always unnerved him, but they were useful, at times. The toll they took, however, Wilson couldn’t understand the trade off’s benefits. He’d had to kill the shadows before, just to quell try to the shaking, blind panic in Maxwell’s face. It wasn’t as simply solved as that, but it’d helped.  

The book never really covered that part of using magic. The cost.

He looked over the door. A replica of the same one he’d built. Another cost, payment for knowledge that he still didn’t fully understand, but the more he read, some things were slowly coming together. But he still wasn’t sure of the cost.

* * *

A reprise, he guessed. He didn’t have time to linger over the camp They’d so graciously left. He’d taken what would be useful and set off.

Dark, large bruises covered his legs and chest, and petals only did so much to numb the pain. He hadn’t been so lucky escaping the last world. Right as he’d set up the key, he’d been smashed into by the rook.

All he could do was dull the pain. He had one more world to go, and that would be the real challenge. And once he passed through that, any damage he’d done to himself wouldn’t even matter.

All he could do was not fail. A simple enough goal, on paper.

These worlds certainly didn’t make it as easy as he’d like it to be, but they were his own creations. He knew them well enough to survive most incidents.

He couldn’t remember how many attempts Wilson had made, Willow alongside him. Numerous, surely. There was a point where it seemed they were just purposefully dying, even.

How long had it been since he’d seen another person. When his sanity was low, lower then he thought it could get, he wondered if anyone else really existed, period. Or was it just him and Them? A sick game to break him down in the end, to make him a perfect puppet.

He could still hear Wilson’s voice though. The exclamation of anger and frustration somehow was an anchor.

* * *

The morning of day five, and Wilson tiredly watched the door. Somehow, Maxwell had lasted through to the last world, then. He could remember how terrifying it’d been, the first time they’d ever reached it. Willow’s lighter had been their only lasting light for a long time, in the eternal night.

He was only partially surprised, at how long Maxwell had lasted. The man was stubborn, annoyingly so. He just hoped this would end soon.

* * *

He’d stashed away torches, even managed to put together a helmet. A benefit, to knowing the last world was always the same. Always eternal night.

There weren’t many torches in this one, but he’d prepared. An axe kept enough firewood handy for when he had to pause, just to rest a little.

They certainly were throwing everything at him. Hound nests, killer bees, all of it lined the sets. A stiff arm that hadn’t knitted quite as well as he’d hoped it did, didn’t help with fighting them off, so he worked on picking the items up as quick as he could, and bolting. The hounds did get distracted with the bees. A failure of planing, on Their part.

He’d carefully danced around bee minds, and preemptively set off tooth traps with rocks, or luring hounds into them.

He didn’t even bother with the rooks or bishops or knights. It was almost over, and repairing the teleportato was second nature.

He didn’t need anything for the throne room, aside a torch.

It took a few seconds to come to, the cold marble a welcome relief to his sore body. He’d made it, however, and that was enough to get him up and moving, battered and bruised, but victorious.

He could hear them, taunts in utter silence. He’d come back. Was his so greatly desired freedom as pointless as They’d seen it? He didn’t have any response. The gramophone played, that endless, annoying tune, and he resigned himself to this hell.

He looked at the robot on the throne. WX-87 looked as miserable as he once felt, in that same seat. It’d be a mercy, to release them, to keep anyone else from Their claws.

“Tell them that this is it, won’t you, pal?” He faked the malice in his voice as he turned the key. It wasn’t a threat, really. But, it should sound like one. Spur them into action, to find a way out.

This hell was his own making. He should be the one to stay. He did not watch the robot’s form fall to the floor and fade away, as They whisked them back to the surface, back to being a pawn. Once he fixed whatever They had done to this world, his world, he would ignore it. He did not want to think about feeling sunlight on his face, or the family he’d come to somehow care for. Nor of a scientist who could find compassion even for a man he hated, enough to save his life twice.

He could feel hands pulling him back into his jail, and he did not resist.

* * *

The creaking of gears as night started to fall startled Wilson, and he held his breath as a form fell just yards away from him. He bolted to it. Torchlight illuminated metal, and Wilson could feel despair set in to his bones, a cold hand wrapped around his heart.

WX-87. Maxwell had made it all the way to the end, and taken the throne.

Wordlessly, he returned to his fire and placed the Codex into his pack, emptying it of all other supplies. Hopefully, it’d come with him, but if not, it’d be waiting at his return. WX-87 was not awake yet.

There was no rational plan in his mind as he activated the door.

But he’d always hated doing nothing.


	11. Journey Back

He comes to his senses in utter silence. There’s no snark, no annoyingly arrogant voice taunting him for stumbling into this challenge. If this descent had been like any of the previous one Wilson had taken on, he might be thankful. But it is chilling to not hear some form of commentary from Maxwell’s projections.

He can feel though, a weight pressing into his back as he stands. The codex had managed to come through with him, unlike numerous other items he used to attempt to drag through with them. The weight is a reassuring pressure, despite the utter frustration he feels towards the Codex Umbra. It’s a reminder of why he’s going through this hell again. To return it to it’s proper owner. An apology too, hopefully.

The divining rod is the same as always, resembling the radio he used to keep in his attic, attached to a large metal pole.

It’d already started to react, and Wilson sighs and sets off, following the rapidly increasing beeps as he slogs through the rain.

At least he had not ended up in winter. Those had always been the worst attempts. Too easy to die right away, freezing and starving when luck didn’t go quite right.

Wilson hoped that for once, luck would stay on his side for a little longer.

* * *

He’d found what They’d done. Not so much that they’d completely removed both Beefalo and the parts, as They’d moved them in an inaccessible location. Much like they’d done with the fake teleporter, an island that one could never hope to reach.

He dealt with it in the night, far from prying eyes. He could feel Their hands try to grab the projection’s form, but they passed through. He could hear Charlie’s low growl everywhere, even when he easily teleported across the island. This was why they’d never been able to outrun her, he recalled. She was part of the night eternal, now. All running did was grant another second as the monster recalculated their position. He closed his eyes and felt her pass through the image of his form. There was no flesh and blood to tear into. He was as much of a shadow as she was.

The beefalo, he randomly scattered the few that were milling about and gathered up the four items, and returned to the mainland.

He placed the potato shaped object next to the barren plots of land, ready for farming, the leaver by a pig’s house. He tossed the last two into the abandoned camp. That would render them easy enough to find, he hoped. He did not have the stomach to find their sets.

He started to leave, but took a final moment to enjoy the closest thing to silence he’d ever hear again. The glow of a ghost in his peripheral vision was startling, but he recognized Abigail without pause, the flower giving her away. At least Wendy was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t think he could deal with the loneliness of the Throne room if he saw the last bit of his family left alive.

He gave a forced sardonic grin to the ghost, and disappeared back into the cold reality of the throne room. Restraints tightened at his wrists, and his shoulders sagged as he heard the droning of the gramophone.

He deserved it, he mused.

* * *

Wasn’t so much luck, but he’d managed through four levels of hell. Not a single word from Maxwell either. He’d expected some reaction, some old taunt to slip forth, or just even a glance of the magician at the start of every world.

Nothing. Radio silence. He plucked the rod from it’s stand, a lit torch in his other hand. It’d been one hundred and thirty nine days, he totaled, and he still really didn’t have a plan.

He’d read the codex forward and back, an entire book of translations now was bound, sitting right on the Codex itself. But there’d been no talk of the Throne, no talk of Them. Not a single answer he could use.

He hadn’t tried anything the book had mentioned, in terms of magic. He hadn’t looked at Maxwell’s notes since the surface, but the slow change into what looked like madness, and mentions of blackouts, had kept him from even touching the most basic sounding act in the book.

It didn’t help that he still didn’t know how magic worked. Everything existed in one form or another, and took energy to change. How could this make something ‘appear’ out of nothing? He didn’t trust it, at all.

But what was he to do? He’d get to the throne, free Maxwell, and be trapped himself? What good would that do? It’d been five days for everyone else, WX-87 probably took Maxwell showing up as bad thing, which… honestly, he’d assume anyone would of. Maxwell had done terrible things when on the Throne. Who was to say that he wasn’t going to do that to them again, aside from the little note in the Codex that was currently in his possession.

So if Maxwell was to just show up, no one else, they’d probably be less charitable then ever towards him then they’d been the first time.

So, that was off the table. But there weren’t any solutions, at all, that he’d found. They’d done an excellent job of hiding away information that might solve anything at all. Nothing on what this place really was, what They were, the throne, nothing.

He shook his head turned his attention back to the divination rod, the radio emitting a slow pulse. He could plan once he’d made a reasonable dent in gathering the things. No use dawdling here, wasting time.

* * *

Maxwell’s eyes closed. He’d never kept time down here, he’d paid attention to the days only when antagonizing the survivors. Now, without that, it was unbearable, between the gramophone’s gratingly jaunty tune and the hushed whispers of Them, half veiled taunts and threats if he didn’t pay attention to Them, Their words.

Why could They take from him now, though? His life was all he had left, and that would be a blessing to lose.

He’d already resigned himself to eternity here, there wasn’t much more They could do that would make him suffer.

* * *

His pickaxe broke through the last rock, and he gathered a few chunks of flint from the rubble, when a reflection of light from his lantern caught his eye.

A small golden crown, maybe about as big as his wrist. That was certainly odd. He tossed it into his pack. “Might as well see if I can get enough gold for a life amulet out of it.” He mumbled, brushing away the last of the rocks.

Two parts down, and two more to go. A few hound rushes, but it was nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. He’d almost lost his lantern to a few monkeys, which was strange. They always were underground, and last he checked, there weren’t any cave systems in these worlds.

He stashed away the pickaxe and grabbed his lantern and the key. A few more hours left in it, he judged, then he’d have to find a fuel source for it. Maybe some fireflies, if he could find them.

The beeping seemed stronger when he swung it to the left, so that was a place to start.

It was when he’d found the potato shaped chunk of metal that he heard it. He’d stayed to collect the resources around the small farm, and this odd chattering seemed to echo across the darkened plains. A shrill screech, coming closer and closer by the second.

Whatever it was, it crashed into him, bowling him over into the dirt, a carrot in his hand, freshly uprooted. The chattering ceased for a second, then started up as soon as the weight lifted off his back, something snagging the carrot from his hands.

Wilson pushed himself up with that, not even bothering to wipe the mud from his face, and chased after the creature. “Hey, get back here! That’s my stupid carrot, you damnable…” He paused just for a moment. An oddly shaped primate took this opportunity to eat the stolen carrot. “What the hell are you?”

This… monkey, he decided, they looked monkeyish enough. But it looked so unlike the splumonkeys that were currently inhabiting the world.

They jumped up and down, a kind of almost dance, and rushed forward, grasping at his bag. He smacked away the hands, glaring. “Hands off!” They still grasped at it, hands reaching. “I said, get out of here. Scat, shoo!” Wilson backed away from the hands, pulling the divination rod out of the ground.

The monkey followed.

“What do you want? You already stole my carrot.” He brandished the divination rod, wishing he’d had a spear instead. This was really weird, even for the fifth world.

Maybe he’d just lost his mind. He wasn’t seeing shadows though, so that was out.

The primate started to gesture wildly, hands forming a cylindrical shape that they mimed putting on his head.

It took Wilson a few moments to think about it. “Is this about… a crown?”

The monkey nodded vigorously, jumping up and down, gesturing to themselves.

“You just stole my carrot. I’m not giving you it.”

Their shoulders dropped, and they chittered sadly, before looking at Wilson with pleading eyes. The scientist looked over the primate, really wishing this was some kind of weird delusion brought on by lack of sleep, but he’d managed to catch a few hours the day before. Maybe the monkey would be of some use, however.

“How about you… come with me, then?” The monkey chirped happily, apparently being near the crown was enough? Weird. “Well, you need a name, I can’t just go about calling you it or they…” He thought for a second. “Wilbur?”

The monkey clapped, and Wilson wasn’t sure if they understood english or Wilbur was just reacting to tone of voice or something.

He kinda hoped they didn’t understand much english, at least. He was already regretting this.

* * *

He could hear the echo of footsteps. Had They finally decided to start taunting him with the draw of escape? Funny, he thought they were better at taunts then that. What did it matter to someone who’d resigned himself to this fate.

And it was a welcome relief to hear something other then that damnable music. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the sound of the footsteps. They were getting closer and closer, a decent imitation.

Then the record screeched, the sound it usually makes when the needle is removed.

That was a new one. They always turned that thing back on.

“You know, since I came all this way, I’d at least expect a hello.”

That… that was vaguely disturbing. They really must of decided on what nerves to hit for once. Wilson wouldn’t be here, he’s certainly summed up the fact that he thought that he was in league with Them still.

“Am I really getting the silent treatment?” There was a pause. “I guess I can’t blame you, I said some awful things.” Maxwell felt something heavy hit his lap, and he opened his eyes. The codex, and another book, crudely bound. “It’s still yours, you know. And… I came to say I’m sorry?” It was an unsure statement.

He looked up. Wilson gave an unsure wave, looking a little worse for wear. “Higgsbury, can you read?” His voice fell flat, but he was trying not to stare. “I decided to do this. What does paying my debt mean to you?”

“Well, here I was hoping you wouldn’t be a dummy about it, but there we go.” Wilson sighed, his shoulders dropping. “I didn’t mean the debt thing as more then a joke.”

“If you’re going to say that about the rest of your words, maybe I should go back to thinking you’re a hallucination brought on by Them.”

“I…” Wilson looked away. “I’m sorry. I said things that had been haunting my mind for a few days, and I’d let my paranoia get the best of me.” He crossed his arms. “It doesn’t change the stupid things I said, but I don’t think you’re as awful as I said you were. To be honest, your note kind of pretty much stated that as false.”

“So, you came here to what, give me a book that’s useless in my hands while I’m here?”

“I came to get you out. You don’t deserve this either, you know. None of us deserve to sit on the throne at all, it’s torture.” Wilson collected both books and slung them into his bag.

“And how exactly, do you propose that, Higgsbury? Are you going to graciously take my place here, and leave me to the ire of everyone else? I doubt they’re very pleased at the fact I took the throne.”

“No, that’s not it.” He pulled something else out of his bag, and threw it to the left. Maxwell’s eyes traveled to the left. “I’m hoping it works, you know?” A monkey hurried to the object and put it on.

A monkey? That was Wilson’s plan? Maxwell really doubted the scientist’s cognitive function.

He turned back to Wilson, glowering. “Really, Wilson?”

“Just wait.”

He heard the click of the key, restraints freeing his wrists, as he was dumped to the floor, already feeling the physical form degrade.

He couldn’t see if Wilson was the one being grabbed by the hands or not.

He hoped not.


	12. Conversations By The Fire

Wilson blinked, slowly adjusting to the harsh light of dusk. It’d been so dark, even the fading sunlight was hard on the eyes. But the grass was warm, and he could feel it just seeping back into his skin. The ‘throne room’ were deathly cold in comparison, and even just the short time he’d spent there had ripped any warmth from his body.

The books, however, pressed uncomfortably into his spine, and he rolled over, grinning at the site of the pinstriped back. It had worked.

He tried to suppress a bit of manic laughter, but it escaped. It’d worked! They must be pretty pissed off now, but it’d worked. Both of them were safe. As much as safe was a misnomer here, it was better then the throne.

Standing up, he could see how low the last bit of light was. Soon it’d be back to the cold dark. He sighed. Guess they were stuck by this accursed door a little longer. At least his cobbled together camp was still there. All he had to do was light a fire and wait till dawn.

He walked to the small chest he’d put together, mostly just to hold tinder out of the rain, and opened the lid, grabbing a few logs, a handful of grass, and flint. Since he wasn’t struggling to see the flint and stone, the fire was much simpler to light then it’d been in a while. It was weird to think about. How long he’d spent in the total darkness, and yet it was only five days since he’d left, here.

Eleven days since he’d said some truly regrettable things.

The fire was roaring, and he stepped back to enjoy the sight of the flames dancing against the dark red sky, setting the pack down and sitting next to it. They didn’t have any food, but they’d find something in the morning. There were berry patches nearby, grass and twigs too, if they needed a trap. But fruit would probably suffice.

Two long days back to their old camp, though. That wasn’t going to be a fun journey, seeing as they only had what they could gather. The rest of the tinder was probably going to be used tonight to keep the fire blazing.

But that was for later.

He could hear the footsteps in the grass, and looked up, watching as Maxwell sat beside him.

They were silent, as the light of the sun fully died, and left them with the fire’s light illuminating the small camp.

It was Maxwell who broke the silence. “So, what now?”

Wilson looked at the magician, who was staring straight at the fire, a subtle frown on his lips. “What do you mean, what now?”

Maxwell gestured at the makeshift camp, still not looking at Wilson. “What do we do now? I doubt your friends will be very happy to see me in any form.”

“They aren’t like that.” He could see the frown deepen from the side. “Besides, you did it to fix things. They’ll understand.”

“Wilson, no one had a very favorable opinion of me to begin with. I said things to make it sound like I was taking back the throne because I wanted it.” He paused, his voice lower. “I didn’t expect a rescue. I expected to be stuck there for the rest of time.”

Wilson reached over and put a hand on Maxwell’s shoulder. “You tell them the truth. It makes sense.”

Maxwell looked over at him, and snorted. “If you’d never opened the Codex, you wouldn’t have known. Besides, no one trusts anything I say, with good reason. There’s no value to my words. Do you trust me?”

Wilson’s hand slipped from Maxwell’s shoulder, and he looked at the ground, the dirt glowing with firelight. “Not particularly.” He admitted. “But you’re a better man then I thought you were.”

There was a bark of laughter from his mouth, and Maxwell looked away, his shoulder slumped. “Funny, because you were saying the exact opposite before.” He muttered.

“I’m sorry.” Wilson sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I meant it then, but… when you disappeared, I was worried. I’d been paranoid and stressed, and I know that doesn’t make anything I said right, but I hope it explains some of it.” He pulls over the bag and opens it, passing over the two books. “I managed to translate it all, when I had time.” The book is stared at, and both are carefully taken. “But…” He hesitates. “I read your notes. I have some questions.”

“What kind of questions, Higgsbury?”

“I went over them, and something changed, Maxwell. There was a point I couldn’t even read most of what you wrote. And then all of a sudden it was clear and concise. And the blackouts and whispers. Why didn’t you just stop?”

The books were placed to the side, and Maxwell sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s a long story.”

“How about a deal then?” He doesn’t quite know what prompted that. “You tell me that story, and I’ll tell you mine.”

“Wha-…” There’s a pause, and his hand leaves his face. “Fine. I’ve always been curious as to why you were so eager to accept back over the radio.”

“Alright. Go ahead.”

Maxwell sighs and leans back, hands spread on the ground to keep him upright. “The year is 1901.” He said. “A man named William Carter had come to the United States, hoping to preform. He is a foolish man, chasing a foolish dream. He wants to preform, to make people smile with sleight of hand.” He pauses. “For three years, he lived in incredible debt, trying to make something worthwhile out of his show, before it gets to be too much. To avoid a debt collector who strong-arms extra money out of him, he runs to the west. To find his twin brother, who’d settled there long ago.”

He stops for a second. “There is a crash, between a train and a circus wagon. It’s the middle of a desert, scorching hot sun. He was not prepared for this, at all. And in the wreckage that surrounds him, he hears something calling, and it offers him a chance to live, to achieve his dreams. All he has to do is open the book.” Maxwell gestures to the Codex Umbra. “To him, there was no other way out. He would die of dehydration first, out in the desert. So he picks up the book, and finds the strength to walk to the nearest town. He gets a ticket, and continues his journey. His pastime is trying to decipher the Latin. What he can make out however, is fascinating. Actual magic. Not sleight of hand and clever tricks. It is what he has always dreamed of.”

He wrings his hands, and Wilson watches the mask of indifference fall. ”In time, he becomes notable, forgetting his brother. He learns more and more of the dreadful secrets the Codex holds. He uses a stage name, Maxwell. And he hires a assistant, who’s name is Charlie. She is clever and enjoys the work, and she ends up managing to befriend him. They become famous, together. And finally, it’s 1906. April. They have one final act to preform, before taking a well deserved break. William had put together a finale to impress everyone, and leave them wanting more.”

It’s then he stops, and looks into the darkness. “I believe you can infer the rest, but it is that day that drags them both here, well, to be exact, drug us here.” He looks back at Wilson, more tired then he’d looked before. “Satisfied?”

The scientist nods, digesting the story. "So, you’re like the rest of us. You wanted something, and they offered you a deal.”

“They offered me life and death. To a man who was on the brink of death, hearing he could survive, could succeed, was a tantalizing offer. And back then…” He picked up the codex. “This seemed very harmless.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “So, everything’s the book’s fault, is it?”

“No.” That is the answer that shocks Wilson. “In part, it is my fault, for letting Them play these games, for risking her life. For bringing all of you here.”

They sit in silence, the fire crackling. It’s unbearable, the oddly thick silence.

“What made you accept my offer, Higgsbury? I’ve told you my story, hold up your end of the bargain.”

The scientist sighs. “It’s not quite so long as yours. I wasn’t really close to my family. My father was a religious man, and my mother followed his whims. You can imagine how having a son who wished to go into science went over. I was educated in England, thanks to a rich aunt who enjoyed spiting her sister’s husband, since my father would never pay for me to study science. He felt it was a defiance of god.” He looked up at the empty sky. “The only thing we ever agreed on were how gorgeous the starry night sky was. He taught me the constellations. I almost miss it.”

Wilson looked over at Maxwell. “Anyway, I graduated university, and ended up living in a small cabin alone, to avoid the scorn of my family. I had so many ideas, and felt like there was so little time. I obsessively worked, and yet nothing came to fruition. So, right when I was about to give up, there your voice is. Offering me knowledge.”

He turns back to the fire, which is slowly getting lower. “And that’s that. I foolishly decided to listen to a ridiculous voice on the radio, and ta-daaa.“ He throws out his hands. "Here we are. Suffering.” He leans forward, trying not to pay attention to the hunger he can feel slowly rising in his gut.

They are silent, and in the dying light of the fire, Wilson manages to fall asleep.

The morning comes too soon, however, and in silence, they gather what they need, and walk to find food. The clearing with a few berry bushes wasn’t too far.

He busies himself with gathering the small red fruit, occasionally glancing over to Maxwell. It was odd, they hadn’t even argued yet.

He can hear footsteps in this silence, however, and can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. They’re defenseless.

“There you are!” Wilson turned slowly, watching as Willow entered the clearing, a spear in her hand, and relief flooding his body. It wasn’t some godawful creature. “When WX-87 showed up and said something about Maxwell taking the throne, I went looking for you to get answers, but your camp was empty.” She got to them and poked the spear into the ground, point downward. “I took Chester back with me, by the way. He looked lonely. Also I… might have scavenged your camp since we had an incident with lightning recently.” She looked to the side, and then back to Wilson, a grin on her face, “I’m glad to see you’re safe.”

She then looked over at Maxwell, who’d backed away from the two. “And you! What the hell were you thinking, you idiotic man!” She points at him, stalking forward.

“Willow, please, it’s really sim-.” Wilson reached over, touching her shoulder. He really didn’t need this. Willow proving Maxwell’s words from the night right so early in the day.

“Why would you leave the half of the parts in the old camp!” She poked him, scowling. “Why the hell wouldn’t you just place them all there! I was not happy going to that stupid pig’s house to find the leaver.” There was silence as Wilson gave Maxwell a curious look, and Willow huffed.

Maxwell stood there, face stoney, eyes looking anywhere but Willow and Wilson. “And how do you assume I did it?” Wilson smirks. Maybe Maxwell had misjudged everyone else. The scientist popped a few berries in his mouth, watching the show.

Willow snorts. “Wendy told us that Abigail saw you that night. We’d had to set up camp closer to the old one, and Wendy asked her sister to scout for us.” She flipped open her lighter, lighting it and turned back to Wilson. “Anyway, as I said, I had to scrap your camp for bits, so you’re welcome to come join us for a while. Follow me.” She grabbed the spear as she headed forward, extinguishing and palming her lucky lighter, gesturing for the other two to follow with the hand that held it.

She pulled Wilson forward as they walked. “So. How are both of you here? Shouldn’t you be on the throne? I’m glad you’re not, but seriously Wilson, what have you done? And more importantly, why?” She asked, fiddling with the lighter in her hand, snapping the case open and closed.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He paused at the second question. “I just had to. I couldn’t leave him there.”

“Yes, you could have! I’m grateful for the parts, but he’s put us through enough to warrant staying there, don’t you think?”

He frowned. “I’m not going to sink to that level, Willow. We all know the throne is torture. And besides, it was my fault he went back anyway!” She raised an eyebrow, flicking the lighter on. “Look, we had an argument…”

“Like that’s new.”

“And I said some awful things.”

“So? He’s spat plenty of venom at you. What’s wrong with getting a little even?” She looks back, and Wilson’s eyes follow. He’s not paying any attention to them, or at least, that’s what it looks like.

“I’m a gentleman, Willow. I’m not particularly fond of sinking to that level. I had to go after him.” She rolls her eyes and shuts her lucky lighter for good, stowing it away. “I needed to apologize.”

“And somehow, you’re both here, neither of you on the throne. Please, even if I don’t believe it, explain?”

“I got a monkey to follow me to the throne room, and they put the key in.” Wilbur had really wanted that crown. It was the oddest thing.

“A monkey?” She paused, eyes wide, shock clear across her face. “How the hell was there a monkey?”

“Do I look like I particularly know or care?” He sighed. “I wasn’t even sure it would work, Willow. I’m just glad it did.”

She shrugged and hurried her pace as they continued to walk in silence, her questioning being done, her camp with Wickerbottom and Wigfrid being closer to the door, it was only almost night by the time they arrived.

Maxwell had been oddly silent the whole walk. He held back from the light of the campfire Willow was already getting started, to catch the magician.

“Catcoon got your tongue?” He asked quietly, worried, almost. “You’ve been rather silent.”

It took a few seconds for Maxwell to respond, a startled expression at Wilson’s presence that quickly disappeared. “Thinking, pal. You should try it sometime.” He smirked as Wilson gave him a little shove and walked around the edge of the campfire, avoiding the curious glances from the rest of the camp.


	13. A Snowy Afternoon

The camp was oddly quiet. For eleven people, they managed not to make a lot of noise. That could be due to the fact they were all currently huddling around the two fire pits, the already cooling air proving too much for everyone. He’d thankfully tucked away a thermal stone in his breast pocket, when he’d gotten wind of the fact they were going to stay for the winter, just to see if They would try and throw any curveballs, he’d made one, not looking forward to another period of freezing. Maxwell leaned against the felled log, the hand-bound book Wilson had made of the translation open in his hands.

The scientist’s handwriting was in places, a little hard to read, but the words themselves made more sense then his previous attempts at translating the Codex Umbra. It was charcoal on paper, so Wilson had only written on the front half of the pages to prevent smearing, it was twice the size of the codex, due to this. When it came to the forms of shadow creatures, he held back a chuckle. There was a little note next to a rough sketch of a terrorbeak. ‘Translator’s Note: These shadows are prone to trying to bite your entire head off. Keep an eye behind you.’ One, that was quite possibly a description that would fit most of the shadows, and two, the fact he felt the need to make that note was charming. They both knew that already, and yet the scientist made the note anyway.

He glanced up from the translation, eyes settling on the scientist sitting across the blazing fire. Wilson was carefully making repairs to a knit hat, not that he needed one, already prepared with a thermal vest and hat. He tied off the stitches and passed it over to Wendy. “Finished it, miss Wendy.” He gave the child a grin. 

His niece took it carefully, sliding on the hat as soon as she had it in her hands. “Thank you, Wilson.”

Maxwell looked back down at the notes as soon as Wilson turned back to another sewing job, some other warm clothing that had been cobbled together and now needed repairs. Wilson had been rather curious company the last few weeks, dark nights spent talking about the past, the future, even just questions about magic. It was… nice, he admitted to himself. Wilson was clever and prone to some rather bad jokes. The company was nice. 

His brother, too. Wilson had already drawn the connecting lines, between William Carter and Wendy Carter, but he’d had to confirm, to ask why in the world he’d brought his niece to this hell.

He hadn’t had an answer for that, honestly. He couldn’t remember what rational he’d had at the time. To save Abigail, perhaps. But, really, if he admitted it to himself, he hadn’t made the connection until he’d been freed. It was a name, an opportunity.

Though, he’d thought, silently, that it was one of the worse choices he’d made. The Carter family never had much luck anyway, and there he went, making life worse for his own family.

It had led him to wondering if Jack was alright. His twin brother had about the same amount of luck as he did. Last he’d heard, his wife was sick. Then Abigail died, and Wendy disappeared. That must have been hard. Even in the few postcards he’d gotten from his twin, back before William Carter had disappeared, he could tell how much Jack’s family had meant to him. He’d sounded excited, even through his writing, that William would see the kids.

He wished he’d taken the time to go see his brother before he’d started the show in California. Or anything, really. Written a postcard back. Something. He should have done something.

The last thing he’d said to his brother had been about the Codex. And then he’d just forgotten, consumed by the knowledge and ideas that were contained within, somehow, he’d forgotten about his own twin.

He sighed and closed the book, trying to shake off the growing weight of guilt. In a way, he’d ruined his own brother’s life, no doubt. Another tally mark to add to the list of bad decisions that were finally starting to haunt him. It was getting quite long, these days. Previously, it had only been causing Charlie’s demise. Now it felt as heavy as the stone walls around camp. 

He was shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of his name. “Maxwell, were you even listening?” Ah yes, Wilson. Dragging him here was another one of the regrets now. Funny how things changed. “We’re running out of kindling, and logs. I figured we could get some kindling while Woodie and Wigfrid deal with logs.”

“And you’re inviting me along on this work, why?” He raised an eyebrow and regarded the scientist curiously. Normally he’d make a quip about it being beneath him, but this was unexpected.

Wilson shrugged. “You need to do something.” He said. “I thought you’d want to be helpful.”

“I’m plenty helpful, Higgsbury.” He smirked, watching the scientist roll his eyes, arms crossed. 

“Anyway. Let’s get going before it gets colder. I’d like to not be wandering out and about in the dark.”

“Fine, pal. Whatever you say.” Arguing was not particularly something he wished to do at the moment, surprisingly. “Shall we be off?” He raised an eyebrow as the scientist walked over to a chest, and grabbed something, before walking back and slamming a pair of earmuffs over his ears.

“Yeah, now we are. Don’t need you complaining about freezing to death.” Maxwell bit the inside of his lip, shocked at Wilson’s actions.

He got to his feet carefully, his old injuries complaining at the motion, before dusting off his clothes, hiding his bewilderment with the usual act. “Now, Higgsbury, when have I complained about something as minor as that?” He gave a smirk, but was oddly grateful for the action, as well.

There was a resounding snorting noise from the rest of the camp. Somehow even WX-87 had managed one. Wilson grinned and gestured at them, as if to say, ‘see?’

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, any gratefulness gone. Well, not really. It was almost typical.

There was a tug on his suit coat, and he looked down, hand leaving his face. “May we tag along? The camp is dreadfully boring.” Wendy looked up, her neutral expression kind of diminished by the woolen hat. He looked up at Wilson, who shrugged. Fat lot of help he was.

“I guess you might as well.” It was hard to say no, to be honest. “I doubt collecting twigs ranks very high up in terms of excitement, but if you wish.”

“If she’s going then we’re going too!” Was the declaration from the other side of the camp.

Lord, were they going to babysit? He didn’t mind his nieces quite so much, Abigail was quite handy at taking care of Wendy’s protection. Webber just meant they’d have to avoid pigs, lest they wanted to get into a fight with a village. That would be exciting, certainly.

But Wilson apparently didn’t feel like saying no, so eventually they were walking through the snow covered forest, a few paltry twigs bundled together, Wilson’s usual spear in hand as well. The cold had apparently killed off a lot of the woody saplings. Wonderful.

Wendy paused, looking up at a one of the cedar trees, Abigail floating next to her. “I did not mean to overhear…” There was a whispery sound from Abigail. “Alright, yes, fine, sister dear. I was listening in, when you mentioned a Jack Carter. Do… did.” She corrected herself, looking from the tree to Maxwell. “Did you know my father?”

“Yes, I did. He was a good man.” He bit the inside of his lip again, watching as she walked over towards him. Wilson and Webber had thankfully found a batch of twigs farther away, ignoring the conversation.

“Are… are you Uncle William?” She paused. “I heard you call father your brother, and father only said he had one brother.”

Oh dear. He wasn’t really William anymore, was he? William had been… well, the antithesis of all he’d become. “Once upon a time, Wendy.” He decided that was the easiest way to put it.

“You’re still family.” Ah, straight to the the point. Very much like Jack, still. “That explains a few things.” There were more whispers from Abigail. “She asks if we can still call you Uncle.”

He froze. That was… not something he’d expected. An uncle, him? He shook his head. “I don’t think that would be wise, little Wendy. I’m not the same man your father talked about.”

Wendy grabbed his hand, and he froze. “You’re very weird, Uncle Max. But alright.” Oh dear. Uncle Max, even. That sounded wrong in a way. Maxwell was never to suppose to have family ties. He’d left that all behind with his former name, hadn’t he? But, it was nice. About as nice as… he stopped that train of thought.

Wendy looked at Abigail, and tilted her head upward. “What’s it like to be so tall?”

“Would you like to see?” Terrible idea, but, he had to admit, he had a soft spot for his niece. She nodded and he picked her up, a surprisingly light child. “It’s not very differen-”

He paused, the sound of heavy breathing filling the air, and he saw Wilson turn to look for the source of the noise as well, so it wasn’t just some paranoid delusion.

He carefully put down Wendy, and looked at both her and Abigail. “You need to run back to camp, Wendy. Find Wigfrid, Woodie, Willow, or Wickerbottom, alright?”

“What is…” She paused and listened. “It’s too early, is it not?”

“Apparently not. Go, child. We’ll deal with it.” He looked over at Wilson, who’d already shooed Webber away, and had approached him.

“You just had to go and call this boring, didn’t you?” Wilson faked a glare, but it was obviously not malicious. 

“My apologies, but when I said the word excitement, I doubt a deerclops is what I had in mind.”

“Yeah, yeah. You have armor, right?”

He snorted. “Of course I do, Higgsbury. Under all of that koalafant, do you have any?”

“Not as much as I’d like, but enough I think, to last a battle. You told Wendy to get the others too, I assume.”

Maxwell nodded. “There’s a difference between pride and stupidity, I do happen to know the difference, pal.” He summoned up the nightmare sword, wishing he had something more long ranged, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“So, you didn’t. Because you’ve happened to toe that line plenty of times for me to doubt that.” Wilson smirked. “Tallbirds ring any bells?”

“Hush, you.” They could hear the stomping grow closer, and Maxwell’s hand tensed around the hilt of the blade. “Any clever battle plans from your ‘genius’ mind?”

“We’ll have to stay out of the way of his ice blast, obviously. We’ll have to strafe him, try and attack from the back. I’ll play bait, since I’m pretty sure one wrong swipe would have you down for the count. Don’t worry about trying to kill him, I think we just want to make sure he doesn’t get any closer to camp, and wait for someone with a longer range weapon. If you start seeing things, run, as you can probably assume.”

The plan seemed solid enough. “We don’t have any blowdarts, do we?” The ground shook as the deerclops approached.

Wilson shook his head. “I haven’t had the time to catch snowbirds to restock mine.”

“Delightful.” He could hear a tree crash to the ground. “Well, now or never, eh, pal?” He wouldn’t deny the panic in his chest. Deerclops, much like the rest of the giants, were deadly. They were two people, and with the sanity drain from the beast, his shadow clones wouldn’t be much help, as if one died he wouldn’t be able to summon another.

“Yeah. He’s coming, you better get moving.” He glanced over at Wilson. The scientist was already in position to run at the monster, avoiding the blows he could.

They bolted apart, the Deerclops stomping into the clearing. Out of the corner of his eye, Maxwell tracked the blasts of ice, and Wilson’s relative position to them as he hacked at the heels of the beast, jumping back every time it made a move backwards, or tried to turn. He could hear Wilson taunting the thing whenever it turned back towards him.

The best laid plans of mice and men, however… He struck another blow to the back of the Deerclops as he heard the shattering of an ice blast hitting the ground. He glanced over, and couldn’t see the scientist. That was not a good sign. “Wilson?” He yelled over, forgetting who’s attention he really shouldn’t attract.

The deerclops turned, and he backed up, staring the beast down in it’s single eye.

“Hey ugly! You haven’t killed me yet.” Wilson struggled upward, a yard away from where he should of been, brandishing his spear. “Come on, you big lug, fight me!”

The deerclops turned back screaming, and Maxwell stuck another blow to it’s back, his head throbbing. “Higgsbury, you might want to get better at dodging.” He called over.

“I’m doing just fine, you know! Keep hitting him, I think I hear the others.” He struck a blow with the spear and danced back as the deerclops prepared another strike.

“Fine, fine. Keep on your toes!” His blade vibrated with another strike, and he shook, noticing shadowy forms at the corner of his eye. Fantastic, already? Wilson was probably dealing with worse, then. He stepped back, leaning on his blade, feeling the pressure on his head relieve itself.

Wilson had paused, breathing heavily, not looking at the deerclops rearing back.

His heart stopped beating for a moment. Wilson had already been hit once, and he’d said that he didn’t have much armor. Another strike might just be the end.

There wasn’t much he could do. But… he ran, shoving the scientist out of the blast radius.


	14. Regrets

The frost nipped at his heels as he stumbled forward, just narrowly avoiding the tail end of the icy blast. Wilson heaved in a breath, what little air he’d been trying to get into his lungs knocked out of him. The world had been slowly turning grayer and grayer by the second, shadowy forms surrounding the area around the deerclops.

The oppressive pressure of the deerclops’s presence was staring to relieve itself, before he heard a roar from above. Another near miss of the summoned icicles as he dashed away, looking behind the monster, hoping Maxwell hadn’t attracted the attention of it.

But the magician was nowhere to be seen. Where was Maxwell? The sinking feeling in his gut was like cold stone, that Maxwell had shoved him out of that blast. But… he watched the deerclops take a few shambling steps forward. He didn’t have the time to look. He had to keep this thing busy, away from camp. “Hey, ugly! Come on, put up more of a fight!” He shouted, jogging away from the cyclops’s claws. He didn’t have time to worry, but stars above, he hoped he was wrong.

It wasn’t long until he heard a familiar battle cry. “Valhalla awaits!” A sigh escaped him as he jumped away. Wendy and Webber must of gotten some help. Not that Wigfrid would ever back down from this kind of fight, no matter how dangerous.

“Wigfrid, take the back! I’ll try to keep him distracted.” He shouted to the warrior. There was more footsteps then just her, but he needed her in position right away. She was a force to be reckoned with and he had no one attacking the giant.

He jumped at the tugging on his vest, pulling him from the deerclops’s radius, before someone stepped in front of him. “Hey, big butt! Want a taste of fire?” Willow’s face and sweater were illuminated by a torch as she shouted at the giant deer. She looked back at him. “Wilson, you’re not looking too good. I’ll take over for a bit.” She said, before dashing closer, waving the blazing torch around with abandon. Her own way of keeping her sanity up, in the face of the monster looking down.

He retreated to safer ground, passing Woodie, who quickly joined the fray. Leaning on the staff of his spear, he watched the fight, Willow dodging large chunks of ice summoned from the ground. His head was still pounding, but the ache and the lurking shadows started to fade from his vision since he was far enough from the aura of nightmares the deerclops seemed to produce, much like all giants. Once the grey tone and shadows vanished, with just a blink of his eyes, he glanced around their surroundings. Broken trees and uprooted plants dotted the snow, and snowflakes he hadn’t even noticed falling were starting to amass on the rubble of the fight.

He could see Woodie backing up Wigfrid, a spear matching Wigfrid’s in his hands, and Willow’s torch burning out. She tossed the bundle of smoldering twigs at the monster and ran to the side, withdrawing what must of been her lucky lighter, within a second, a smaller flame had been produced, but she quickly lit a fallen sampling, lifting it to attack the beast in one hand, her lighter safely stowed away in the other.

He could hear her shouting. Knowing Willow, some kind of insults at the deerclops, even though it couldn’t understand them. Not to say he hadn’t thrown some at the creature too. It at least made facing it a little easier.

He took a deep breath and glanced around. Still no sign of Maxwell. Damn it. The idiot must of taken that blow, shoving him out of the way of that ice blast. He could have taken it. Heavily injured, sure, but… he huffed. Couldn’t that idiot listen to sense for once? His heart felt like stone as he traced the land around the battlegrounds. There was an odd lump, against one of the cracked lumpy pines.

He limped over, rocks and tension settling in his gut as he approached the human shaped lump. The noise of the deerclops, his friends, was nothing compared to the frantic staccato of his own heart in his ears. Half-propped up against the splinted half of the tree’s trunk, body limp, head at unnatural angle, was the magician. Blood had already stained the snow, lacerations from icicles cutting through Maxwell’s suit and skin. Snow had covered his hair and suit.

He dropped to his knees, spear falling into the snow, and leaned over Maxwell’s body, begging things he’d never believed in, the stars, the stones, his father’s damnable god even, that he’d find a pulse, a sign of life. His hands shook as he traced Maxwell’s neck. Nothing. His other hand searched both wrists, gloves pulled away and thrown into the snow. Unlike the last time he’d checked, he found nothing.

He even tried to put his hand to Maxwell’s heart. There was nothing, but the faint lingering of warmth from a thermal stone’s shards.

No heartbeat, no movement, just cold, pale skin, glassy eyes when he pulled back an eyelid, and blood staining the snow. His heart thudded in his ears, louder then ever.

“You stupid…” He shook, removing his hand and letting the eye fall shut. “You stupid idiot. I could have taken that hit just fine! What did I say? One wrong swipe would take you down! Why do you only seem to listen to me when you shouldn’t?” He drew back and almost reached forward to shake Maxwell’s shoulders, hopefully to shake some sense into the man, before stopping. There… wasn’t any point. There wasn’t any return this time. No touchstones he could recall had been activated by either of them, nor did they have life amulets. He looked to the side, black sword impaled in the ground.

He gingerly picked himself up from the ground, walking to it. He heard a snap, just as his hand brushed the hilt, and he looked at the ground, the broken binding for a pair of earmuffs under his heel. He shook his head, trying to clear his head from the far gone pleasant picture from earlier, and removed the sword from the ground.

The nightmare fuel contained in the blade hummed as he held it. He could already see the color draining away from the world. But it was far stronger then his simple spear. The risk was worth it, he decided. He ran, rushing into the battle, passing by Willow. The edges of the world had turned grey, but… it didn’t matter. This had to be dealt with. Someone… a friend, was already dead. Dead for good.

The monster was heavily injured, at least. He struck at it after Wigfrid bounced away, again and again. His sanity didn’t matter. He didn’t care. He felt numb as he slashed as it. He kept repeating that in his head, telling himself that he didn’t care, it wasn’t important, that it was Maxwell’s own damn fault, and that this was just to prevent more careless death.

He impaled the blade into the beast’s heel as he heard a death rattle from the creature, and backed away as it fell to the ground, Wigfrid and Woodie having felled it. He sighed as the other dealt with the monster’s corpse. It’d give them food, for a while at least.

But… he walked back to the tree where the body laid. He did care, and that’s what the issue was. He should have… well, that was the problem, wasn’t it? There wasn’t anything he could do, that he could have done. He’d told Maxwell not to be reckless. And… as much as science could do, as clever as he was, there wasn’t anything he could do to bring back Maxwell. Color bled back into the world as he dusted the snow off of Maxwell’s face.

He must of been impaled by the same shard that cleaved the tree. It was a sickening picture to think about. He tried to shake off the image, Maxwell slowly bleeding out until he finally died.

He put his arm underneath the cold body, lifting the taller man’s body out of the accumulating snow, scowling at the cold snow melting and seeping into the fabric of his gloves. But, despite that, he cradled the prone form close, a tight grip on the man. He walked towards the other three, their bags bulging with gains from the deerclops.

“Is he injured, Wilsön? I’m sure he can…” Wigfrid paused as she looked over them, realization flashing in her eyes as she saw the exact way Maxwell was held. “Oh.” She looked to the ground, before looking back at Wilson.

“He’s… dead.” His voice was deadpan as he spat out the word. “We’re going to bury him back at camp. Before you ask, we hadn’t found any touchstones, so it’s not like he’s coming back.“ He couldn’t look at his companions, turning away and focusing on the pinstripes on the tattered suit. This was his fault, wasn’t it.

“He was a fierce warriör, Odin will meet him in the halls.” Wigfrid said as he looked over at her, pulling off her helmet. There was a bitter retort on his tongue, about how terrible Maxwell was, how he doubted anyone would want to greet him, but it’d faded before he’d even opened his mouth. Maxwell had pushed him out of the way, some misguided attempt to do something right for once, and this was the payment he would give in turn? Insults?

"Wilson, do you need any help?” Willow asked, stepping forward.

He stepped back, “I’m fine.” He lied. His leg was starting to ache without the battle to distract him from that. “Let’s… let’s just get back to camp.” Maxwell was heavier then he looked, and he almost regretted not accepting Willow’s offer. But, he deserved this. He’d left Maxwell for dead this time. Just like he said he should have in the first place.

Now he had to carry those words, along with the man’s body. This time though, he wasn’t going back to camp to patch up some wounds and wait for Maxwell to wake up.

Stars above, he had to tell Wendy too. He’d been pretending not to be eavesdropping, but voices carried in the snow. Wendy had asked the question he’d only asked a week ago, in the fire light of a night’s watch. How William Carter was tied to Wendy Carter.

She’d just found out that she had family that was alive, here, in this hell. Maxwell might not be… have been, he corrected himself, the most pleasant person there, but it was a connection that she’d probably always been curious about, the mysterious brother of her father. And off the throne, away from Their influence, Maxwell had been changing. Becoming… something. More decent? Maybe sympathetic, more human, was the right set of words. Maxwell had just become another survivor, just like the rest of them. A sarcastic jerk-face of a survivor, but struggling to stay alive, just like the rest of them. No longer the trapped, miserable king of the chess board, nor the confident asshole who greeted them every world.

It certainly seemed like the asshole bit was just a part of who Maxwell had been. Sarcastic, clever words, and annoyingly overdramatic gestures. Wilson hated how fond of it he’d started to become. Now…

Now he wouldn’t ever continue one of their over the top arguments about magic verses science. Never properly understand that damnable Codex, or how this ‘magic’ really worked.

He wouldn’t see that stupid smug smirk when Maxwell decided to call him ‘Pal’ again.

Had it really only been this morning that he’d teased Maxwell about his inability to not complain about minor things. Not that freezing was minor, but still. He’d complained over less before. Like food. Bananas, especially. For someone who’d rather not starve, he could be stupidly picky. In retrospect, it’d been kind of hilarious.

He looked down at the cold body in his arms as the sun set, and they neared camp. There was dried blood splattered across the man’s face, and he wasn’t too sure of who’s it was; Max’s or the deerclops’s.

They stumbled into camp at mid-dusk, bloody, tired, and silent. At least, he said nothing, as Wolfgang pried Maxwell’s dead body from his stiff arms. He couldn’t say anything for anyone else, his heart had resumed the thudding in his ears. A gloved hand tugged at his own, and he half expected it to be a black glove, but instead, it was white, a silent, somehow understanding look from Wes as he was pulled over to a log.

The mime gestured for him to sit, and ran off, returning a mere seconds with a damp silk cloth. Wilson took it and Wes mimed circular motions over his own face.

He took a swipe at his forehead, and looked down, rust red blood covering far more of the silk then he expected. There was a thunk on the log, and he looked to see a pot of honey and a roll of bandages sitting next to him. He resumed wiping the blood away from his face, and watched Wigfrid, illuminated by fire, wrapping a bandage around Willow’s lower arm, a long slice covered by honey. She must of gotten a mild strike from one of the icicles.

Something snapped in his chest as he watched Wigfrid finish tying it up, testing the tightness of the bandage. He rubbed the silk cloth between his fingers, a different firelight in his mind, his own hands cleaning out a nasty head wound with silk and boiled water. That stupid, reckless, insufferable idiot, going after tallbird eggs without armor or backup. Wrapping bandages around broken ribs, later, surrounded by swamp and stone, because he’d been too proud to admit he was hurt worse then just what Wilson had already bandaged. He was so predictable, in hindsight. Always doing dangerous, stupid things. Arguing in the midst of hounds, going back to the throne… ugh. Maxwell was the stupidest man he’d ever met, and now this. He kept doing these stupid things, like he’d survive them.

Sure, they all did that at times. Every move on this stupid island was dangerous, and they already were toeing the lines between life and death. It was what survival was.

But Maxwell had gone just a touch too far. He would laugh, if he had the energy to. Maxwell always went too far. It’d been just luck that nothing had taken out him, or any of them, when they didn’t have the normal fallbacks. Stupid, stupid luck.

He was drawn back from his thoughts when his thumb ripped through the delicate silk, and he threw the rust colored scrap onto the log. He could almost feel the stares on the back of his neck, and he tried to pretend he didn’t know they were all watching. He opened the earthenware pot, and slathered the honey somewhere he figured there must be a wound. He’d stopped feeling them as individual wounds, and he didn’t care enough to look for the injuries to properly care for them.

He eventually gave up, and roughly placed the pot down onto the ground. He ached everywhere, and his eyes burned, but he couldn’t close his eyes. He just stared into the fire, listening to the crunch of frost covered ground being broken by shovels. Someone sat next to him, and with the faint white glow he could see on his hands, it must of been Wendy and Abigail. He couldn’t look at her, and his mouth opened. “I’m sor-“

“He cared about you.” She cut him off, and Wilson finally was able to look at the young girl. Her face was set into her usual small frown, and her feet just brushed the ground. “I remember how he worried previously, even if he wouldn’t admit it.” Her words were blunt, and sounded more like comforting him, then someone who’d just lost yet another family member.

“What’s this about?” He managed to ask, clutching at his own arms.

“You’re feeling guilty.” She was direct, as always. “I know. And, I understand.” She looked up at Abigail. “He said that he intended to make the most of whatever life he had, and so, I figured I should let you know. No one deserves to feel this guilt but me. Whatever he did, it must of mattered enough to him to warrant such action.” She fidgeted, and Wilson looked at her. So young, and she’d gone through so much loss. She looked tiny in her oversized winter hat.

“He shoved me out of the way of the Deerclops when I could have taken the hit, Wendy. Kind of pointless.” He ruffled the hat on her head, and sighed. “And I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect him.”

She looked. “I’m cursed to not have a family, for they all die around me, while I still live. But, I don’t believe it’s your fault. He did this of his own violation.” She looked away from Wilson and to the ghostly form of her sister. “And despite it’s in a death I wish to join her in, I will always have Abigail by my side in life.”

He’d never been able to find words to say to Wendy about her deeply held death wish, so he nodded at her statement as she slid off the log, Abigail following her. Sorrow and guilt still stuck to him, though, and sunk down to his bones. He wished he could sleep, but somehow he knew if he slept, there’d be no rest for him. He’d failed Wendy, despite her words. He knew what kind of loneliness it was. His family was alive, he hadn’t heard from them in ages. He’d been a hermit so long, and she’d lost everything. There was no one alive she had to call family here. Abigail was company, he guessed, but she was an apparition.

Dusk was giving way to night, and there was a shrinking pile of dirt at the edge of the fire’s glow.

There was a tap on his shoulder, and he suppressed the urge to jump, instead looking at Woodie, who held a wooden bowl. “Here’s dinner. You’re probably not in the mood to eat, hell, I wasn’t particularly hungry either even. You two were close, so I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to shove it in the icebox.” The woodsman looked like he was about to sit down, but just gave Wilson a pat on his shoulder instead. “If you need anything, just shout, eh?”

Woodie lingered for a few more seconds, before leaving him to his dinner. He barely tasted it as he shoved a crudely whittled spoon into his mouth. It looked like meat stew, but it was mostly flavorless to him. Just sustenance at this point. He mulls over Woodie’s comment as he eats. Close… Well, he guessed that being one of the few that managed to stand Maxwell’s presence deserved that kind of statement. And he’d seen for more of the magician other then what the man presented to everyone on a daily basis. Close… close sounded like the right word. 

As he set the bowl down, eyes dully staring at the fire, something pressed against his leg. He glanced down to see a panting Chester pressing hard into his ankle. The chest couldn’t exactly see that well, the eye bone really being the only means of vision they had, and currently the eye bone was tucked inside their mouth, but the creature knew exactly where Wilson was. He cracked a soft smile at the fuzzy chest, who nuzzled into his leg more. “Hey, pa…” The smile fell off Wilson’s face as the word died in his throat. “Hey, Chester.” He enunciated the name he gave the fuzzball as he scoops them up.

Chester cuddled up in his lap, the fire’s blaze flickering in the wind, the rest of the camp starting to shuffle to their tents. He should go, he thought, but he didn’t have the energy to pull himself up. Besides, Chester was snoring in his lap, and he didn’t want to wake the tiny chest up. If being a bed for the little creature was all he can do right, then he’d do it for now.

Wickerbottom was the only other person up, her nose in a journal she was scribbling something down in. She seemed unperturbed, and he wished he could be like the librarian in this moment. Analytical, ruled by logic, not emotions. But his weary body and mind couldn’t fight off the ache of guilt.

He tried to will his mind to be blank of images, hand in Chester’s fur, and waited for dawn.

Dawn decided to take it’s time, but slowly, light peeked through the trunks of trees. The morning frost nipped through his winter clothing as the fire died down into a small smoldering flame, and Chester shuddered awake, nuzzling into Wilson for warmth.

Wickerbottom looks up from the notes in her lap, her scarf tightly wound around her neck, a steaming teacup in her hands. “Wilson.” Her voice echoed through the silence of camp. “You’re being too hard on yourself.”

He sighed and rubs tired eyes with his free hand, the other petting the panting chest. “I failed, Mrs. Wickerbottom. I could have taken that hit. I’m suppose to keep the rest of us alive. We’re suppose to survive.” He said, not looking at the librarian. “Neither of us had used a touchstone, we didn’t have life amulets. And he goes and does this. For what?” He sighed and covered his eyes. He’d messed up bad, hadn’t he? And Maxwell just didn’t listen. He never did! Why did he expect Maxwell to listen this time. He should have… he should have… done something. He just didn’t know what.

Her skirt rustled as she stood, and he could hear her footsteps in the crunch of the snow, approaching him. A hand rested on his shoulder. “You should get some rest, Wilson.” Her voice is soft, pitying. “You need the sleep.”

“Later.” He muttered, focusing on stroking Chester’s fur. At least Chester came back. The little monster always managed to come back. He heard the old writer sigh and walk off, her footsteps headed towards the tents. The others still had to be woken up. They still had things to do to stay alive. Still had chores.

He should get up. He knew that he still had to help out, help pull everything into order. Find a way home, maybe. He should be used to this. He’d seen all of his friends die before, various gruesome ways. But they’d always had the safety nets these worlds somehow provided.

And now… he sighed. He’d failed one of those friends. Maxwell, somehow, despite all odds, was a friend. They were an odd pair, but he’d found enjoyment in needling the former king, swapping sarcastic comments and terrible puns. The talks recently… he’d seen more of Maxwell besides the overdramatic sarcasm and bitterness in the last few weeks.

And he’d failed. Failed this newfound friendship, newfound enjoyment in the other’s company. It sat like a heavy stone in his guts. He heard footsteps again. Probably Willow or Woodie or any one of his friends to say words at him. Useless, consoling, pitying words.

Whoever it was stumbled, he could hear the heavier crunch in the snow as they fell. Maybe one of the kids. He looked to the tents, and saw nothing, not a soul was walking towards him from that direction. He turned to the side facing the rising dawn, having to squint into the bright light.

He could only make out the silhouette of the figure kneeling on the ground, a harsh cough from whomever it was. Their shoulders were shaking, and long legs were struggling to get the rest of their body up. He had to be hallucinating. He needed to sleep, no wonder Wickerbottom had told him to get some rest. He must of been reaching the last legs of his sanity.

But, the figure wasn’t the faint shadows that usually showed up in his visions, and he couldn’t see any terrorbeaks or crawling horrors. He wasn’t hallucinating then. He put down the fuzzy chest and stood up, tired legs aching, but he didn’t care.

He crept towards the form, his shoulders tense. What if this was some sick trick of his mind? The figure shook harder, and as he got closer he could makeup what was very much Maxwell’s face. He swore it should be a ghost, but all the apparitions this world made were just shapeless sheets. His hand touched a solid shoulder, and he dropped to his knees.

Tired eyes met his, and for a few seconds he was torn between slapping Maxwell and hugging the man tight. Instead, he put his hands to the other’s frozen face and drug him forward, impulse control failing his tired mind. He pressed his lips to Maxwell’s cold ones, a few seconds passing before he realized exactly what he was doing and pulled back, bright red in the face.

That… well, that wasn’t really out of nowhere, he silently admitted to himself. Guilt and sorrow had hit hard for many reasons. Maxwell was important. Special, even, to Wilson.

“You’re freezing.” He said, pretending he hadn’t kissed the magician, however. He frowned as another shudder wracked Maxwell’s body. “Let’s get you warmed up before you die on me again.” He said, quietly, enunciating both die and again, before standing up from the snowbank, brushing off his pants. He offered a hand to the other, more tired then he’d been only a few minutes ago.

“S-say, pal. That was a interesting greeting.” Maxwell said, taking the offered hand and finally rising to his feet, clutching the far too thin jacket hard around his shuddering body with the other. “That’d be nice though. D-don’t think I’ll get as lucky as that again.” Wilson led him to the almost dead fire, motioning to the log as he retrieved firewood from the chest they kept close to the pit.

“Shut up.” He said, a little more sharpness then he’d intended in his voice as he tossed the logs into the fire, a warm blaze starting to grow. “You…” He tossed some kindling in as well, “You stupid dummy. You died, you complete moron! How… what…?” He couldn’t even finish his question.

Maxwell shrugged, shivering as he got closer to the fire. “I’m… well, I’m rather stunned myself,” he admitted, rubbing his hands in the fire’s warmth. “Don’t worry, this wasn’t some… some elegant plan.” He shuddered again, still not quite warm. “I’d hazard a guess that what I considered was an activated touchstone, wasn’t?” The magician regarded Wilson’s confused face and continued on. “After the bearger, while you were still out, I went for a walk and found one, that looked activated. I don’t remember touching it, though.” He sighed in relief, color returning to his face. “I… wasn’t expecting to be revived.” He admitted, hunched over, trying to get as warm as possible.

Wilson sighed and sat down on the log. Relief, anger, frustration, and weariness all had been fighting to be the top emotion, and weariness from yesterday’s entire journey had finally won. “We buried you.” He said, head going into his hands. “You know, I carried your stupid body back here. You were dead. In my arms. Bloody and dead.” He said, “Do you even know what that feels like?”

“I can’t say I do.” He didn’t look at Maxwell, but his voice sounded taken aback. “You could, no, should have, left the body.”

“Yeah, right. And let the hounds eat it?” He almost could have laughed. “Not let your niece have closure? She did literally just find out, you know, and then you go and die on her.” He looked at the magician and scowled. “I shouldn’t have buried the first of my friends who I believed had actually died? Not given you at least what I felt was a decent burial in this stupid place.” He, stars, he almost wanted to slap sense into Maxwell.

“Friend?” The question was quiet.

“Yes, friend! Or something, I don’t know.” He paused. “I care about you. I thought that was rather apparent.” He sighed. “I thought that I went to the throne because it was the right thing to do. I’d said something stupid.” He looked at Maxwell. “But on reflection, I’m rather fond of you.” His voice trailed off, and he took a breath.

Maxwell’s face was flushed, not just from the heat of the fire. “That explains the rather… surprising greeting.“ he said, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Don’t. Just. Leave it, Maxwell.” It had been a sleep deprived mistake, an impulse he hadn’t been able to reign in. He didn’t need to hear it.

“What if… what if I said I was rather…” Maxwell swallowed and looked away, a hand splayed on the log. “Fond of you as well?” He admitted, voice going just as quiet as Wilson’s had. “I didn’t want to see you die.”

“You dummy.” Wilson put his hand over Maxwell’s. “I would of been hurt, but I had armor. I wouldn’t of died.” He squeezed the hand under his. “You, on the other hand, would, and did. Idiot.” The word was almost a joke.

“I guess I am.” He turned and looked at Wilson, leaving his hand just where it was.

“You are, you really are.” Wilson said. “Major pain in the neck, too.”

“Is that any way to talk to the man who sacrificed his life for you?” Overdramatic, as usual. Wilson almost smiled.

“Yeah, when he’s an idiot that did it for no reason.” He quipped back. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”

“Excuse me for being concerned.” It was sarcasm. There was a tiny smirk already on the other’s face.

“Jerk.” Wilson sighed. “You’re a total idiot. I wish I didn’t care quite so much.”

The banter fell into silence for a few seconds, the camp deathly still. Wilson briefly wondered where everyone else was for a second before Maxwell spoke up. “My apologies, Higgsbury.” He said, looking away. Maxwell’s hand was still under his.

“I’m sorry too.” Wilson admitted. “I don’t mean it like that.”

The silence returns, deafening. The hand slides out from under Wilson’s, and he wonders what’s on Maxwell’s mind. “Would you… would you like to try that greeting of yours again?” A hushed whisper from Maxwell, even in the silence of camp, Wilson almost can’t make it out. The fire crackles next to them, the only other sign of life, aside from them. He froze, looking at Maxwell, who’d turned away. “Ah, neve-“

“Alright.” It was as quiet as Maxwell’s question, Wilson’s face pink as he raised a hand to the back of the magician’s neck. He pulled Maxwell’s face close and closed his eyes, the kiss more an awkward bumping of lips and noses then it should have been, but nice none the less. One of Maxwell’s hands found the one still on the log and rested there, even after they broke apart, both red in the face. “Well then.” He managed, a grin on his face.

“That was certainly something, pal.”

“Next time, remember I can take care of myself, alright?” Wilson murmured. “No dying on me.”

“Noted.” Maxwell’s smirk had faded into a tiny smile. “The same for you, though.”

Wilson was about to say something when he heard snickering from the tents, both scientist and magician stiffening at the noise. “You owe me a really nice meal, Wigfrid!” Was a shout that echoed across the camp.

“Alright, my löve, yöu win.” The warrior said back, quieter then Willow somehow. “I’ll make yöu yöur meal.”

They both sighed, and Wilson groaned. Had they been spying the whole time? Not that the middle of camp was very private, but still. Had everyone just watched? “I’m going to steal her lighter. Or something.” He mumbled.

There was a snicker at the idea, and he felt a gentle squeeze of his hand. “If you’d like, I’ll gladly lend you my assistance.”

“I’ll take you up on that, you know.” He warned, his other hand covering his eyes. Stupid Willow.

“And…” Wilson removed his hand, looking at Maxwell, who was looking down at their hands, instead of at him. “If we ever get a moment, ah, I’d like to try that again.”

“I think I would too.” Wilson admitted. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter was updated July 18th
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading this fic to the end. I’d like to extend special thanks to my friends, dietcloud and lavender-soul for all the support throughout this. I hope it was a fun ride, and if you do want more of these two specific doofs, my ask box at br4v3bird.tumblr.com is usually open for prompts. I hope you will look forward to my next two projects, one which is tentatively titled Poppies, Don’t Starve AU dealing with magic and mystery in the 1920s, and The King And The Pawn (Reversed)
> 
> Art:  
> [By Tainted-Petals](http://tainted-petals.tumblr.com/post/142928414321/faridahmalik-replied-to-your-post-i-need-to)  
> [ By Brovitranduila](http://brovitranduila.tumblr.com/post/149602277992/little-illustration-for-an-amazing-fic-the-price)  
> Thank you so much!


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